


Human Error

by LeandraLocke



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, M/M, Post His Last Vow, definitely a Johnlock fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-04
Updated: 2014-05-05
Packaged: 2018-01-11 04:10:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 65,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1168500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeandraLocke/pseuds/LeandraLocke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With John settling into married life and Sherlock continuing his work as a consulting detective, things seem to have finally reached a comfortable stasis. Underneath, however, emotions are running high and a drug-induced confession from Sherlock changes everything. Combined with Moriarty's apparent return,  Sherlock and John realise one thing: The game is still on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Mild drug abuse, murder and mayhem included. 
> 
> (Edited Feb 17th: This fic will have between 12-15 chapters in the end; I'm currently writing the 8th. The plan is to update at least once a week.)
> 
> Many thanks to my lovely beta-reader Erin who is very critical when I need it (and I do ^^). Thanks to Brontë who helped me shape the overall plot and who has been a source of inspiration with her great meta posts about Sherlock and Johnlock. Also thanks to Ursula who gave me feedback on the first chapter and several details I wasn't sure about. And last, but definitely not least, big, big thanks to Amanda, my 'muse', who has spent hours on the phone with me, having me read the chapters to her, listening to my ramblings about the characters and the plot and helping me plan everything (and now she also provided the summary because I'm really bad at those). ♥

“Shall I turn off the lights or do you still want to read?”

John gave his wife a small smile as he looked over to the right side of the bed. The pages of the book in his lap hadn't been turned for quite a while and he could instantly see in Mary's eyes that she knew his mind was elsewhere. It was infuriatingly hard to keep anything from her, these days.

“I should. After all it's an important publication.”

“But a bit dull and hard to follow,” she replied, brows raised and a smirk on her lips, giving him the chance to ignore that she knew what the real reason for his absense of mind was.

He just shrugged and put another smile on his face as he looked over to her. Her big, round belly was clearly visible under the duvet, and John couldn’t keep himself from automatically reaching out, letting his hand run over the bump in a gentle caress.

He did this more often now, especially in the evenings when he and Mary would be sitting on the sofa, watching TV. Their little girl was most active inside her mum’s womb, then. Despite having treated many pregnant women in his medical career, it seemed like an utter miracle to him that she was kicking and moving about merrily, probably playing with her umbilical cord or her tiny little toes, unaware of the awe these movements caused in the man who couldn’t wait to finally meet her.

Right now, however, she seemed to be sleeping.

John picked up the book and turned his gaze back onto the pages, but he hardly took in more than a line.

It had been five weeks since Sherlock had been called back from exile and five weeks since Moriarty – or someone pretending to be him – had terrorised England with his video message. Five weeks in which there had been no further sign, not even the slightest lead on what the plan was, and it was starting to wear on John. So much that he almost hoped for someone to storm into his flat and abduct him so he, and Sherlock, could finally get to the bottom of this. It was thoughts like these - albeit brief ones, pushed aside and reasoned away instantly - that made him realise he really did crave danger and had got just what he deserved.

There had been no news from Sherlock, either, in those past five weeks. Just one text John had received nine days into the long wait with a possible lead, but before John had even got to Baker Street he had received a second one, telling him it had been something completely unrelated and 'dull'. When he had arrived at the flat he had found it empty, and so he had not laid eyes on his best friend in all that time, either.

If an escalation of the events was the only chance to change that fact then he had even more reason to impatiently hope for something to happen.

He'd often pondered about the possible explanations for the video message. The first that had come to mind was that Moriarty had, after all, survived on that roof over two years ago. John had quickly eliminated that possibility (though not with complete certainty). If both Sherlock and Moriarty had actually faked suicide at each other – ridiculous! Or was it? No, John was much more inclined to believe it must have been someone from Moriarty's ranks that Sherlock had somehow overlooked during his two-year mission to destroy the spider’s web. Then again, with the amount of crazy he had already witnessed in his life, he could be completely wrong, too.

And so, while still attempting to read about the latest methods in treating gastritis, John had not taken in a word while his mind circled back and forth. _Moriarty – Sherlock – Moriarty – what does he want? Why doesn't Sherlock call? - who is behind all this?_

“Maybe you should try my book sometime,” Mary said.

“Oh? What's it about then?”

Mary never got to reply, however, as in that moment John's mobile started ringing. Stretching to reach for it lying on his bedside table, John squinted at the name on the display.

“Mrs Hudson? What's wrong?” It wasn't a question he even had to think about for a second; at after 10 o'clock his former landlady wouldn't just call for a friendly chat.

“Oh John, dear. Sorry to ring you so late. But it's Sherlock.”

“What is it?” John felt adrenaline rush through his system, his heart beating faster as he had to force his voice to stay steady and urgent, although the woman hadn't sounded like it was something terribly alarming.

“He's been acting odd, making all sorts of noise up there. I think it's drugs”, Mrs Hudson replied in an almost whisper.

“Drugs? God, I'm --” John pressed forefinger and thumb to the bridge of his nose, his heart now definitely thudding with anger, too.

“I think you should better come down here. I haven't got the nerve to go up and check on him. God knows what he's about to throw at me.”

“Yes. Stay in your flat. I'm... I'm coming right over. _Don't_ let him leave the house until I get there, all right?”

“If I can”, she replied heavily.

“And if if the noise stops and I'm not there yet please go up and look if he's still conscious. I'll be there as quickly as I can.” John barely waited for her response as he ended the call, already on his feet and reaching for his jeans on the chair by the window.

“Do you want me to come with you?” Mary asked, having got up herself and helping him find a cardigan and socks. John was grateful that she didn't waste any time on asking him about the specifics.

“I'll be fine. I'll call you when I can, okay?”

She just smiled and nodded, her eyes full of concern and affection for him, but also confidence in his abilities, and it was all he needed then. If there was one positive result he attributed to her past as assassin it was how admirably and calmly she handled a crisis. He grabbed his doctor’s bag on the way out, and, not a minute later, sat in their car and drove swiftly but safely in direction of 221B Baker Street.

Taking two steps at once and ignoring Mrs Hudson poking her head out from her half-opened door, John hurried up to the flat. He found both doors closed but didn't stop to knock. The living room door was unlocked, and he entered with a quickly beating heart that most definitely wasn't from the brief sprint up the stairs.

As soon as he caught sight of Sherlock, sprawled on the sofa but very obviously conscious, he let out a breath he hadn't been aware of holding.

“John, you’re here?” Sherlock asked, and for the moment neither his comfortable posture nor his facial expression confirmed any of John's greatest worries. The state of the flat, however, at least explained what Mrs Hudson had meant by 'all sorts of noise': half the contents of the two bookshelves were scattered over the floor, the microscope untypically stood on the side table next to Sherlock's armchair, and a yellowish liquid was dripping from its edge, poured out from a test glass. Others were toppled over on the ground all around the table, and there was an odd, foul-sweet odour in the air.

“What is this?” John asked calmly, still not sure whether Mrs Hudson's suspicion had even been right.

Sherlock sat up, putting his naked feet onto the floor with more force than would have been needed. Upper body leant forward, he swayed slightly and let out an exasperated sigh. “Obvious, isn't it? I ruined it.”

“Ruined what?” John wanted to know as he was still trying to make sense of the scenario.

“I was testing the substance for Gamma-Hydroxybutyric acid. No use for it now.” He rolled his eyes and then continued to talk, more as if to himself than John. “Stupid. Should have waited and set it up in the kitchen. But the fridge! Why is it buzzing so loudly? Mrs Hudson?! Get an electrician, we have a burglary. An unsolved burglary. Why haven't I solved it yet?” In obvious frustration, Sherlock growled the last words, burying his head in hands.

“Gamma-Hydoxy—What? GHB?” John asked, and he could hardly keep his breath from speeding up with anger and worry. “Don't tell me you've taken it.”

“No! No! Of course I haven't taken GHB,” Sherlock responded in what seemed like amused disbelief. He got up from the sofa and walked over to the remains of the ruined experiment. “Don't be so boring, John. Why would I take liquid ecstasy?”

The relief John experienced then amidst his confusion didn't last very long, however.

“I took something else entirely. Something new! Just... what is it!” The previously displayed frustration resurfaced even stronger this time, as Sherlock strode quickly past John, almost as if he intended to walk right through him, had John not taken a step to the side in the last moment. John watched Sherlock climb onto the chair and reach for the top shelf where the books had not yet been taken out and thrown onto the floor.

“Erratic behaviour. Blackout. Hallucinations. Not LSD, not Ecstasy, much too lucid for PCP. And the hallucinations make no sense for an amphetamine. He wouldn't have blacked out, but he did. Complete memory loss. WHERE IS THE BOOK?”

Even though it was hard to follow Sherlock's ramblings, it became crystal clear to John that Sherlock must have taken a completely unknown drug to recreate a crime scenario. It was the second time within only about half a year that John didn't believe for one second, however, that Sherlock had _only_ done this for a case.

“All right, Sherlock. Just... calm down, okay? Take it easy and sit down and--”

“WHERE IS THE BOOK, JOHN?” Sherlock yelled as he climbed down from the chair, looking around the living room frantically. He shut his eyes firmly and brought his hands up to the sides of his skull, pressing it in concentration. “John. Staircase. Left, no, right. Damnit, where is it. Acids and bases. John hand me the nitric acid. Experiment in the kitchen. The open book. Brown cardigan. Cold inside, November. Where is it, where did I put it. Where?!”

John had often seen Sherlock drift off into his mind palace, and he had also often heard him make deductions out loud, but never before had he witnessed such an onslaught of seemingly unrelated thoughts and images being spoken instead of gone over purely in Sherlock's mind. It was starting to worry him, and he tried to match the symptoms to known drugs, himself. Then again, substance abuse – alcohol aside – had never been his speciality; something he had no more knowledge of than anyone who had once studied medicine and had learned about the most common drugs and their effects.

“How about you calm down, take a seat and we'll look for your book, together. Alright?” John tried calmly and approached Sherlock with slow steps. Sherlock, however, seemed to become more and more erratic and disorientated; he swayed with every other step, sweat had broken out on his forehead and neck, darkening the collar of the grey t-shirt underneath his dressing gown.

With another sudden move, Sherlock started in direction of the kitchen, almost knocking over the side table next to John's old chair but taking no notice of it. He stopped at the kitchen table, standing at the same spot where he was usually looking through the microscope, and again, Sherlock appeared to be concentrating and recreating what appeared to be his last memory of the book. John, himself, had no idea when it had taken place.

“Sherlock, please. Listen to me.” John suppressed a frustrated sigh as he noticed that he no longer kept his voice as calm as he had intended. He was angry, very angry, and he very much would have liked to yell at Sherlock for doing something so stupid and dangerous, but there was little chance he'd even get through to his friend like that. If only Molly Hooper was here to slap some sense into him.

“Ah, John!” Sherlock said, as if he only just now registered the other man's presence, which struck John as very odd. “Help me think. I need to solve a burglary.”

“Yes. Yes. All right,” John said with forced calm. “I'll help you.”

“You always do. I can always think better when you are there,” Sherlock replied, now almost charming as he smirked at John. “Now where were we? Ah. The drug. I read something about these combined effects. I must remember the page. I had the page open when you gave me the nitric acid. I can almost see it. But not quite.”

“Okay, from the beginning, Sherlock. So I can follow you. You took a drug, and you have no idea what exactly was in it?”

“Yes.”

“And you did that for a case.”

“Yes. The burglary. Timmy saw his father. But it couldn't have been the father.”

John was relieved that he got Sherlock talking normally even so far, but he was still worried as he observed the quickened breath and the cold sweat on Sherlock's skin. And he could still make no real sense of what Sherlock was even saying.

“Slowly, please. Step by step and from the beginning.”

Sherlock looked at him, confused. “Interesting. You've never done this before. But if you think it'll help me see what I'm missing, it's worth a shot,” he said as he quickly scribbled something down on a piece of paper.

“I... don't under--”

“Timmy O'Connell, 22. Claimed he saw his father breaking into the garage of his family home. With the mother visiting her sister, Timmy has friends over and they decide to experiment with what his friend Steven has got from another friend, who cooked the drug up himself. Timmy rushes into the living room after having gone out to get drinks, claims he saw his father rummaging through some old boxes, later passes out and has no memory of anything. And what is missing from the garage is a hidden box with the family's savings that Mrs O'Connell couldn't put into a savings account as it was her late husband's dirty money.”

“So the father couldn't have done it because he was dead.”

“Precisely.”

“So it must have been someone else, just a random burglar, and the boy thought he had seen his father.”

“You're forgetting the alarm system!” Sherlock replied, an odd alternation of delight and frustration visible on his features. He had started pacing the kitchen back and forth and was now briefly examining the contents of one cabinet before slamming the door shut again.

“But Sherlock... why exactly did you have to take the bloody drug to solve the case?” He could not prevent his anger from becoming apparent.

“To back up whether Timmy had really hallucinated.”

John pinched the bridge of his nose. “Well, one is hardly a large enough sample group for this, is it?”

“Do you want to try it?” Sherlock asked, almost as if he had missed John's sarcastic undertone. “I’m sure I could get some more.” He swayed again and barely caught himself against the counter before he could have fallen onto the heap of dishes on the table.

“Right. You're going to sit down now, Sherlock, because you're sweaty and agitated and you'll let me give you something to take the edge off so you can calm down.”

“You?” Sherlock chuckled. “You're not even real!”

John stared at him for a moment. “You-- Sherlock, you're not hallucinating me. I'm real.”

“No you're not.”

“Yes I bloody well am.”

“Nope,” Sherlock replied stubbornly.

“Do you want me to punch you in the face to prove that I'm real. Because I'm very close to doing it because you were so immensely, fucking stupid to take drugs again. One, on top of it all, that you have no clue about!” His voice had risen vehemently as he'd spoken, and John had to ball a fist to regain at least a bit of his calm.

“Oh, you won't punch me.”

“I think I will,” John replied calmly.

“No. You're a figment of my imagination. Timmy hallucinated his father because he wanted to see him.”

“Okay. Right. You wanted to see me. That's nice,” John said. Somewhere in his gut there was a faint twisting sensation. “I'm here now. In the flesh.”

“No, you're not.”

“Sherlock! Jesus Christ. Stop it already. I AM REAL!”

Sherlock interrupted his resumed pacing and looked at John, head slightly tilted and eyes squinting. Despite the glazed look in them there was also something... sad.

“If you were real then I wouldn't be able to do this.”

And before John could process what was about to happen he felt Sherlock's palms on his cheeks and lips on his mouth. He froze.

He didn't know if he had stopped breathing, if mere seconds had passed or more, and he could not think. Could not form one coherent thought on what was happening and why. He only felt his heart thudding even faster than with the previous worry and anger, and his legs feeling slightly weak and heavy, and he could not move a muscle. The kiss, gentle but strangely desperate, did not end by John's doing; in fact, he unconsciously felt his mouth react to the touch a mere moment before it ended, and he found himself blinking into the blue-grey eyes in front of him.

“See. You're not. You would have punched me.” All previous agitation had seemed to have faded, leaving Sherlock with hunched shoulders and that sad, broken look on his face. John found it very hard to breathe in that moment.

“You never call. Same as after the wedding. You're just... occupied elsewhere. With _her_.” A hint of bitterness lay in his voice.

“I've lost you, John. You're only ever _here_ ,” he pointed to his temple. “I've lost you to her, by my own doing. By my own vow. And I'm never getting you back. You're... you're gone.” The last word, barely audible, left Sherlock's lips as he suddenly swayed worse than before and started shaking like a leaf. His fingers slipped as he reached for something to hold on to.

It was extremely lucky that John managed to shake himself from his momentary paralysis and was at Sherlock's side in an instant, catching his fall; and it was even luckier that his instincts took over, shoving all other thoughts into the back of his mind while he needed to be a doctor, not John: confused and overwhelmed best friend of Sherlock Holmes.

He looked at Sherlock’s pupils - slightly dilated but responsive, quickly felt for a pulse - quickened and weak but luckily even, all within a few seconds. Sherlock’s skin looked much paler than usual and there was cold sweat on his face and neck. Movements tired and weak, he struggled in John’s arms, trying to sit up but failing so that he remained half lying on the ground with John holding his upper body against his chest as Sherlock took a few somewhat even breaths.

“You… you arse,” John finally let out, though it was barely more than a hoarse whisper. “Why…” He didn’t know what he wanted to ask; a million thoughts seemed to be racing through his mind now, and he couldn’t let any of them surface to be reflected on for more than a split-second. It completely overwhelmed him: confusion, anger, something odd and indefinable that made his chest feel tight.

“John,” Sherlock breathed out, weakly. “You’re not supposed to-- No, this is wrong. It’s wrong. I shouldn’t have... You were supposed to wait for me. I didn’t account for this to happen. I didn’t think. Why didn’t I think?”

“Shush now,” John said placatingly before Sherlock could ramble himself into another frenzy. Even though he wasn’t far from a complete circulatory collapse it was an improvement from the agitated state he’d been in earlier and one step closer to getting Sherlock into bed to sleep it off. John still held his best friend close and, almost unconsciously, let his free hand caress Sherlock’s ice cold fingers soothingly. “Just calm down. I’m here.”

“Are you really?” Weak and hazy as he was, Sherlock sounded utterly terrified and John didn’t quite know whether to stick to the truth or not. “You can’t be. I… wanted you to. But you’re not supposed to be real.”

“Shhh, everything’s going to be fine, Sherlock. I promise. Just stay calm. Breathe.”

“Nothing’s ever going to be fine,” Sherlock replied, voice slurred but bitter.

“It will. Just take easy breaths. In and out. Deep and easy. Yeah. Like that, good.” John brushed a lock of damp hair out of Sherlock’s face, and for a moment he felt the overwhelming urge to kiss his friend’s forehead.

_Don’t. You’re a doctor. Be a doctor. Think later._

“Do you think you can get up?”

John saw Sherlock nod faintly, but the first attempt ended in Sherlock slumping right back onto the floor, his ridiculously long limbs too shaky to hold him upright.

“Hang on. There.” Having got up himself, first, John carefully pulled Sherlock back onto his feet and supported him with his own body. Luckily, it wasn’t far to the bedroom, and the doctor managed to get Sherlock into bed without incident. He helped him out of the dressing gown, put his feet on top of the mattress and pulled the covers over him.

“You need to sleep. But first I need you to drink a glass of water, and I’ll also give you something to take the edge off and help your body detox. All right?”

Sherlock nodded weakly before John looked around, wondering where and when he had put his bag. Right. The living room. He quickly hurried out and returned with a full glass of water and his medical equipment. Sherlock, luckily, was still lucid.

“Can you tell me anything else about the drug? Any other side effects? Nausea, heart problems, neurological consequences, anything I need to know?”

Frowning in concentration, Sherlock finally shook his head. “It’s supposed to be a party drug.”

“Well, yeah. Most of them are. But I need to know how it affects people so I know what I can give you.”

Again, Sherlock seemed to be thinking for a lot longer than it would usually take him to give such a reply. Then, finally, he shook his head again. “Just the blackout.”

“Right.”

As he helped Sherlock sit up to slowly drink the water, John quickly went over possible drugs and their interactions with analgesics. Morphine was out of the question here because it may cause the blood pressure to sink even lower, so he was left with ibuprofen, which should be effective enough to counter any painful sensations of the comedown without causing negative side effects. A mixture of vitamins to help his system detox which he luckily had in his bag for the rare cases he needed to treat alcohol poisoning. He filled a syringe and injected it into Sherlock’s arm vein.

“All right?” he asked as the needle pinched the skin. Sherlock barely reacted.

“You need to sleep, okay? Just don’t worry about anything and sleep it off. We can talk in the morning.” Or better not, if a blackout prevents it, John thought. He was certain that tonight’s confessions and actions were nothing Sherlock would want to remember or even would have done in the first place, had he been sober.

“Jesus,” John sighed faintly and laid his hand on his mouth. He had to remind himself to keep breathing, too, and to focus on his patient’s needs.

“Ss…” Barely conscious, Sherlock was obviously struggling to speak.

“What was that?” John asked gently and leaned in more closely.

“Stay. Just a bit.”

“I will, don’t worry. I’ll watch over you.”

Barely a hint of a smile, Sherlock looked up at John once more and then closed his eyes, instantly falling asleep.

“Because that’s what you always did for me, too.” He had sat there next to his sleeping friend for many minutes before the words came over his lips.

Hours later, the first light of day still absent but the city slowly awakening around him, John arrived back at his and Mary’s flat. He felt utterly exhausted, drained both physically and emotionally and too tired to think. He took off his jacket, shoes, and on the way to the bedroom his jeans and cardigan before he crawled into bed in the near darkness of the room.

“Is he alright?” he heard Mary’s sleepy voice.

A lump formed in his throat as he nodded, and he needed a moment to swallow it down. “Yeah. He will be. I watched him for a while. He’s sleeping it off now.”

“And you?”

“Fine. I’m fine.” His voice cracked, and he hoped he sounded simply tired.

Mary didn’t reply, and John already thought that she had gone back to sleep before he felt the weight on the bed shift slightly and her sitting up. “Are you sure?”

_No, I’m not sure. And I think I’m most certainly not all right. I just don’t know what I am._

“Yeah. Go to sleep.”

“John,” Mary started again after a few moments, and he felt her hand reach for his and grasp it gently. “You didn’t even call. Don’t lie to me.”

Her tone was as gentle as her touch, no reproach noticeable in it, yet John’s previous exhaustion faded somewhat and made room for something else. A bitter chuckle left his lips. “Like you haven’t been lying to me at all.”

“John!” She was still calm but reasoning with him now, and for a moment John had no idea whether he wanted to continue being angry (and at whom anyway: Mary, Sherlock, himself?) or feel guilty for taking it out on her.

“Sorry love,” he amended then and returned the touch of her hand. “But I told you I was going to be mad at you from time to time. I’m sorry. Just go to sleep.”

“Alright. But you can talk to me, you know that, right?”

John had to swallow to keep another bitter chuckle in. Because he really couldn’t.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to my beta-reader Erin and my 'muse' Amanda, again. And many thanks to all of you who have read, given kudos and commented. You can expect the next chapter within the next 5-6 days or a bit sooner (depending on whether I meet my own deadlines for the following chapters).

Sherlock stumbled out of the bedroom, his mind as hazy and useless as his weary legs, but the heavy throbbing of his head and a strong urge to take a piss had kept him from sleeping any longer. As he made his way from the bathroom to the kitchen, he squinted against the faint daylight that streamed in through the window, and he could barely focus on his surroundings. Just one thought had manifested clearly in his mind, one he had reminded himself of in his last sober moments: _check the notes._

Leaning heavily against the kitchen table, he blinked and tried to focus his gaze on the spot where he had put the small notebook, and despite the dizziness and nausea he managed to read the two words on the white paper before his whole body rebelled against the physical strain and the after-effects of the toxic substance in his system. Faster than he would have considered possible in his current state, he reached the bathroom and just managed to kneel down in front of the toilet before he delivered the few contents of his stomach into the ceramic bowl. When he was done heaving and retching, weakly having reached the flush, he remained on the ground, leaning against the bathtub to catch his breath.

So he had hallucinated John as he’d expected. Sherlock couldn’t make up his mind on whether he was glad he had also experienced complete memory loss or not. Same as his client, he had no recollection of the events of the previous night, and his body but more so his mind were too exhausted to go over all the evidence and clues to reconstruct what must have happened. It was irrelevant anyway, though he hated the feeling of not being in full control of his mental capacities.

Caffeine should help. Also sufficient hydration and rest, as John would surely remind him of, were he here.

What had he done last night, when he had believed to see his former flatmate? Had he imagined an usual, every-day situation such as them watching the telly? Had John commented on his deductions and potential experiments (he had intended to check the drug for various possible substances)? Had the interaction between them been atypical, maybe even frightening or disturbing as drug-induced hallucinations often could be? He wished he had written down more than just ‘hall.: John’, though the precise character of his hallucinations were of no importance to the case.

The case. Sherlock tried to go over the details, the possible scenarios and explanations he had thought of previously, but every time he tried to follow one thought it blurred away into nothingness. He growled in frustration before his limbs finally felt steady enough for him to get up and rinse his mouth at the sink. He’d brush his teeth later, but first things first.

Waiting for the kettle to boil so he could make coffee, he forced himself to drink two glasses of water in small sips. His stomach gurgled and twisted and he wondered whether he should at least eat a dry slice of bread before drinking any coffee, but the thought made him nauseous again.

The father: hallucinated. Jimmy had not said anything about the cash box. Whom had he seen? _What_ had he seen?

_John._ What had John said and done when Sherlock had willed him into existence?

Sherlock growled and pressed his hands to his head. _Focus on the case!_ But it was to no avail; Sherlock’s mind did not want to cooperate.

It hadn’t been the first time Sherlock’s mind had created such an illusion. In the two long years of absence from London, such figments had often been Sherlock’s only consolation. He had always known such thoughts to be a simple memory projection (except perhaps one time in Iran when he had investigated a small cell associated with Moriarty and been invited to smoke some opium; and there, too, it had been wishful thinking the powerful euphoria had caused rather than a true hallucination).

Hallucinations could bring forth a person’s strongest desires, his greatest fears and most twisted fantasies. And yet, knowing himself and all these factors, Sherlock was unable to deduce what he might have seen.

While his thoughts had continued to circle this question, he had functioned on auto-pilot and, unsurprisingly, found himself in his arm chair, a half-empty cup of coffee - the second one; cold now - on the side table. His body slowly started to feel better, yet his thought processes were still slow and one-dimensional.

“Only five weeks into escaping exile, and already you’re falling into old habits. _Again._ ”

Sherlock let out a faint sigh and rolled his eyes. For a minuscule moment he had hoped the voice he had heard was a mere hallucination, too, but then again, in his current mindset, he would have used that knowledge to let it end in violence, and he felt much too drained for such things.

“Go away.”

“Sherlock,” the voice continued; its source remained outside his peripheral vision, although ignoring it could only work for so long. “I can tell.”

Another sigh. “Not a habit, and not an old one. It was for a case.”

“Really? Hardly a case worth solving, is it? A simple burglary. Abuse of recreational drugs involved, as I can tell from the failed experiment currently oozing onto your rug, and a specific book you couldn’t find. Seymour and Smith, was it? Redundant for the case, really. Any village bobby could have figured it out.”

“Well then, solve it”, Sherlock replied, too tired and miserable to engage into a verbal battle of wits, but even so deliberately appearing nonchalant. He didn’t even know when Mycroft had got here. Not that he really cared.

“That’s not the reason of my being here, little brother. I have full confidence in your abilities to do so yourself. Once your mind is up to par.”

Despite his previous intention to just ignore the intruder, Sherlock’s head snapped around and he glared at his brother. “Did you come here to taunt me or do you actually want to be useful, Mycroft?”

“Useful? Oh, I believe I’m being highly useful to you, Sherlock.” Mycroft stood by the door, his weight (sadly two pounds less than last time he’d seen him) casually supported on that ridiculous umbrella (no rain for the next two days). Like a bad caricature of an English gentleman that would only require a bowler hat to make a perfect image to amuse any dim-witted tourist.

“What do you want? Control every step that I take again? It was for a case, Mycroft. I took the drug once and I don’t intend to try it again,” he shot back, annoyed. His head started throbbing again with the exertion of his stream of words. He really only meant to take it once, and he ignored the thought that, had the drug caused only the hallucination but not destroyed any recollection of it, he may have just given in to it once more. _John._ What had he and John been talking about, been doing? What had Sherlock _allowed_ himself to do and say to a mere figment of his imagination?

“There won’t be a need for me to control all your steps, Sherlock, if you promise not to give me another reason,” Mycroft replied with that small, smug grin on his face, the bastard.

“Oh, okay, _brother dear_ , I’m so sorry. I will never, ever do drugs again,” Sherlock said in a mock-theatrical voice. “Now please piss off.”

Instead of giving in to Sherlock’s demands, Mycroft now walked closer and sat down in John’s chair. His grin had disappeared, and instead his brow was furrowed (oh, new wrinkles, old ones about 12% deeper and more prominent). Although anybody else would have found his features to express nothing but boredom, there was a clear sign of anger and disappointment in Mycroft’s frown. In his eyes, however - something Sherlock couldn’t overlook even if he wanted to - genuine concern. It was most disconcerting.

“All right. Let’s have it then,” Sherlock prompted in the vague hope that there could at least be _one_ use to Mycroft’s unwanted visit.

“Sherlock,” the older Holmes brother started, understanding fully that Sherlock wanted answers. His voice was less patronising than reasoning, which annoyed the younger one even more. “Patience was never your strongest suit. But I assure you, everything will play out to your advantage and satisfaction.”

Sherlock snorted. “And of course I have every reason to trust you.”

“You do,” Mycroft replied, almost affronted.

“That would be a lot easier if you actually let me in on your plan.”

“You know everything I can tell you.”

“Really? Hm…” Sherlock pursed his lips as if he were considering the words while, in fact, it drove him up the walls not knowing and not being able to figure it out. “No. You already know that I know of your little charade. The rest are just specifics which you are keeping from me for god knows what reason. Could be a mistake. Your secret-keeping could lead to my death if I’m trying to find it out myself. And we both know that would break your heart.” Sherlock gave his brother a mock-sweet smile. He ignored the painful growling in his stomach and the throbbing headache, at least for the moment.

Mycroft rolled his eyes, obviously not responding to what he believed was a childish display of defiance. Damn him.

“I assure you I have considered all eventualities carefully. However, a little trust and assistance from you would be beneficial.” A tiny, scolding smirk briefly appeared on Mycroft’s lips before he turned serious again. “Believe me, your lack of knowledge is for your own good, Sherlock.”

Sherlock realised there was no point to another sarcastic retort; he studied his brother’s features for a few moments, hands brought up underneath his chin. Finally, he let out a resigned sigh. “But is it for John’s, as well?”

Mycroft did not respond.

“That’s what I thought.”

“Sherlock, there will come a time when you’ll thank me,” Mycroft continued after a while, and Sherlock tried hard to ignore the apparent sincerity in his brother’s words, too angry and frustrated for the lack of proper communication, and too mistrusting. What qualified as ideal outcome - or most ideal, given the circumstances - was something they often had vastly different definitions of. Same as previously, when ‘everything will be all right’ had turned into him losing the person most important to him.

“If you have nothing else to add please do not burden me further with your presence.”

Mycroft rose from the armchair slowly and straightened his jacket. Two steps from the door, he turned towards Sherlock once more. “I do hope you solve this case soon and without incident, little brother.” The mockery barely concealed Mycroft’s concern, and Sherlock almost couldn’t bear it any longer. He preferred him being a rude arse to an overcaring mother hen.

Mycroft raised his head and directed his gaze towards the window, a moment before Sherlock, himself, had registered the sounds outside. “I believe someone else shares my interest in that. Have a good day, Sherlock. Do consider carefully what you are doing.”

Drugs again or letting John in on what little Sherlock knew of Mycroft’s agenda? Probably both.

“And clean up this mess. It’s unbecoming of someone like you.”

“Fuck off, Mycroft.”

Sherlock kept his eyes closed and did not open them again until he had heard his brother leave the building and the swift steps of a lighter, shorter person with a specific step pattern and sound reach the upper landing. As he looked back towards the opened door, John appeared in it a second later. Not a word of greeting, he just nodded faintly before he took in his surroundings. No look of surprise or puzzlement on his features as he spotted the chaos but concern visible on his features instead.

“You all right?” John asked and came a little closer but not as close as usual. Hands in his pockets, he was hesitating, and he looked back towards the mess on the floor, although clearly not to examine it. Had Mycroft told him on his way out? No, not enough time for that. Odd.

Sherlock frowned. “Yes.”

“Good. Good. So….”

“Just a little annoyed that I still haven’t figured out a case that, according to my dear brother, any idiot could solve.”

John still stood halfway between the door and his chair to which his gaze briefly drifted, but he did not sit down. “Care to tell me about it?”

“Hm, yes. Why not. Maybe you can make sense of it,” he replied with a smile, studying John’s features for a mirroring response to the teasing remark, but it was barely even there.

“Go on, then.”

“A young man, Timmy O’Connell, has a little party with two other friends while his mother is out of the house for the weekend. They drink, watch DVDs - all the usual, dull things young people do these days - when his friend, Steven, suggests they try a new drug another friend of his has created. It has some properties of Liquid Ecstasy, but supposedly with less of the numbing effects. Allegedly. Timmy takes the drug and goes to fetch something to drink from the garage. According to his friends, he storms into the living room and claims to have seen his dead father rummaging through some shelves in the garage. His friends ignore it since he’s obviously hallucinating the whole thing. The next day when Mrs O’Connell returns and her son has mostly recovered but also forgotten all events of the previous evening, a hidden cash box is missing from the garage, one which only Timmy and his mother knew about, allegedly. The house had an alarm system which would have needed to be disarmed from a control panel inside, which would make it impossible for a random burglar breaking into the house and the garage. Unless Timmy switched it off. Who stole the money?”

John looked at him for a few seconds, obviously pondering the question but also - there was something in his look that Sherlock couldn’t quite place. “How can you be sure he even hallucinated if he had no recollection of the night?”

_Lie._ He could just lie to John, come up with one of many different explanations. Mary was a liar, too.

“Because I took the drug myself to confirm the testimony.”

John let out a low chuckle, shook his head and lowered his gaze. His posture was tense, and he was obviously frustrated with Sherlock, but the expected shock was absent from his reaction.

“And how do you know you hallucinated anything if the other side-effect is memory loss?”

“Obvious. I wrote it down when it happened.”

This time, John looked back up at him, lips slightly parted. Surprise? Confusion?

“Sherlock. You…” He cleared his throat and looked back down again. “If you mean me then that was no hallucination. I… Mrs Hudson called me last night and I came here to check on you. So, unless the effects vary a lot I’d say Timmy’s friends made the hallucination part up. Because you didn’t seem like you were hallucinating anything at all.” Suppressed anger in the calm tone of his voice. But something else. What? Sherlock’s mind still didn’t function as swiftly and in the usual complexity. He more felt than thought: surprise, a vague sense of shame and also guilt. What had he done? Had he made a complete fool of himself being utterly convinced John was but a figment of his imagination?

But something else seemed to assemble like a puzzle in his mind, with one crucial piece previously missing. “John! You’re brilliant,” he exclaimed and got up from his armchair to walk towards his friend. “Mycroft was right, it was easy. So easy and obvious. Why didn’t I see it? Stupid! But you did, John! The friends did it!” It had happened almost automatically when Sherlock had walked up to John and laid both hands on his shoulders.

Unexpectedly, however, John almost recoiled from the touch, frozen for a moment, eyes wide and a breath caught in his throat. Why?

_Look at the clues._

Dark shadows underneath his eyes - lack of sleep. _Obvious. He was here last night to watch over me, possibly stayed until he was sure I was physically all right. His shoulders are tense - further sign of little and not sufficiently relaxing sleep._ Still an obvious result from the previous night, so what was it? Bad breath? No, Sherlock had brushed his teeth after the first disgusting tasting sip of coffee. Fear? What would John be afraid of? _Did I hit him??_

“Sherlock?” John asked then, relaxing only a small bit as Sherlock let his arms slump. “You really don’t remember anything of last night?”

Frustration? Yes, about the drugs at least. Anger and hurt? _No._ Something else. Pupils dilated ever so slightly. Lips parted. A faint flush of pink on his cheeks and neck.

John cleared his throat and lowered his gaze as he took a step back and to the side.

_No._

“Well, all for the best. You were quite an arse last night.” John chuckled placatingly. An obvious lie. “So, you’re feeling all right then?”

“Yes.” He wasn’t. “What precisely did I do?” Sherlock asked, curious of John’s (untruthful) reply and terrified of the truth that remained.

John hesitated for a moment, just a smile on his lips - the same one he often wore when either perplexed, angry or completely uncertain of what to say. “You… there was shouting. You threw a couple of books at me. That sort of thing.”

“Ah.” A little bit of truth to conceal the lie. Everyone was a liar, just that some people did it to protect themselves and others again to protect someone else. Which type applied here was easy to guess. If Sherlock had done something that explained John’s earlier reaction - and there weren’t that many possibilities - then the only reason for John to need to protect himself with a lie was if he had reciprocated or even initiated it - whatever precisely ‘it’ was; Sherlock refused to think of it too vividly just now. And John would not do that, firstly because he’d never take advantage of someone in an intoxicated state and secondly, more importantly, because he wasn’t even --

_Pupils dilated. Lips parted._

Sherlock’s chest felt heavy, his legs shaky. He had to sit back down in his armchair, barely managing to make it look lazy and tired instead of -- whatever it was he felt. _Stupid emotions, so unpredictable!_

“Did you drink any more water? Have you eaten?” John quickly asked and came closer, kneeling down in front of Sherlock and reaching for his wrist to take his pulse.

“Yes, water. And coffee. Haven’t eaten,” Sherlock replied weakly, realising that John would find his pulse racing.

The doctor frowned. “Just coffee then, hm? I’ve brought you a few more vitamins. Take them today and drink at least two litres of water, okay?”

“Yes. All right.”

“And eat something. Do you have anything in or shall I go downstairs and get you a sandwich?”

“Bread, jam and some cheese,” Sherlock replied and once again watched John look at him with furrowed brow but a vague smirk on his lips.

“You’re being an uncharacteristically well-behaved patient, today. I’m starting to think I should get your head examined.”

Sherlock snorted. The nagging questions in his mind needed to wait being answered.

“Well then, I’ll get you something to eat and some herbal tea - no, not black. You’ve had enough caffeine today. Take it easy. And then I’ll be on my way.” John said as he walked over to the kitchen. He, too, was uncharacteristically calm and understanding - another consequence? Sherlock needed time and quiet to think, and mostly his brain to function on full capacity again.

He realised after John was gone that this could only be achieved after several hours of sleep - which luckily, blissfully came to him as soon as he had laid down.

 


	3. Chapter 3

“Last one?”

“Last one,” Lucy confirmed and gave John a friendly smile as she closed the door. The young nurse had taken over for Mary two weeks ago - with the pregnancy as far progressed as it was - and John was quite satisfied with the good job she had been doing so far. However, today had been stressful for both of them, with his lunch break extended to fit both meeting Mary for her last sonogram and checking on Sherlock into his schedule.

It was quarter past six and John felt utterly exhausted.

The lack of sleep (he hadn’t got more than two, three hours) alone wasn’t what made him wish he could just curl into a ball and fall asleep on the medbed in the surgery. The entire day, whenever he had waited for a patient to undress or change rooms, or performed easier tasks that allowed his mind to drift, he had gone back to last night, and he still did not know what to make of it. What to think, feel and how to just bloody stop both.

Sherlock had kissed him. His best friend. Kissed. Not an overenthusiastic and purely platonic ‘John-Watson-you’re-so-brilliant-I-could-kiss-you’ smacker to the forehead - which had never been executed but only announced, once, and only because Sherlock had been utterly desperate to solve a case. No, a full-on, passionate, _romantic_ , kiss, lips on lips, tip of tongue--

John let out a deep groan, his hand running down the side of his face and covering his mouth. He shook his head and pressed his eyes firmly shut for a second to push back the images he had no energy to deal with. Not right now. Best not ever, because there was no use anyway.

“Right,” he mumbled to himself, took a deep breath and got up from his desk chair to get his jacket and leave the surgery for the day.

Mary had promised to prepare a chicken roast - not that he was hungry at the moment - but it was something to look forward to, to get his mind off of things. A nice evening with his wife. Maybe a bit of telly later while he’d caress her ever-growing belly and feel the tiny feet of the miracle inside kick against his hand. Just him and Mary and the little one.

_Right._

How could he just blissfully and ignorantly enjoy his life, with his family, knowing that in another part of London, back in the place John had called his home for so long, was Sherlock. Probably thinking of him, regretting, longing.

But was he? John had been trying to tell himself that the kiss hadn’t meant what kisses usually mean in such a context. He had looked back at all the instances in which Sherlock had so often confirmed that he was not interested in any kinds of romantic relationships or even just sex. Married to his work, he had said on their first evening together, and even long after that, John had never been given any indication that Sherlock might have changed his mind about relationships. Or even be capable of feelings and attachments of this kind.

Then again, Sherlock was Sherlock, and with Sherlock everything was a little different. He always dismissed emotions as something tedious and useless, something he was so far above; but there had also been countless of instances in which Sherlock had proven, again and again, not through words but actions that he was capable of… well, affection. In his own odd and Holmesian kind of way. That, however, still didn’t mean that Sherlock was _in love_ with John.

A kiss, maybe even in this context, maybe even accompanied by those words, could mean a whole lot of things, couldn’t it? Maybe Sherlock was just lonely and missed his best friend, and he projected these feelings in a way that _seemed_ right but wasn’t? Maybe Sherlock, especially in his drugged state, couldn’t distinguish between the fine nuances of affection. Because he had never had any experience in that direction anyway.

Or had he?

As he waited for the next train that would take him home, John had to remember Irene and the whole mystery of Sherlock’s attraction - if one could call it that - to her. It had been the first time he had shown that, perhaps, there was more than met the eye underneath all that coolness and logic. The more he thought about that time, about Irene and how Sherlock had acted around her, the more an unbidden, long-forgotten feeling stirred in John, and he almost felt his heart skip a beat as he recognised it.

The train passed by him without him having got on.

John suddenly found it very hard to breathe. In fact, he had to move to the nearest wall and prop himself against it, forcing himself to take deep, even breaths against the clenching, cramping sensation in his chest. He really did not want to have an anxiety attack - something that hadn’t happened to him in a very long time - in the middle of a tube station.

He could not do this. Could not think about this any longer and wonder. Wonder what could and might have been and if it should have. If he’d wanted it to or not. There was no way, no point in even thinking up an alternate universe in which Sherlock had never left and Mary never come into John’s life.

Not even if, for a split-second just now, John had wished the latter to be the case.

“Jesus Christ.” A few more heaving breaths left him, and he balled his left hand to a fist, concentrating on nothing but an inner mantra to _calm-the-fuck-down_.

As he finally managed to do so, straightening himself and focusing his glance toward the oncoming train, he ignored the concerned, amused and puzzled stares from a few people standing around, and he got mad at them because nobody had even bothered to ask him whether he was all right. Not that he would have welcomed the attention, but it proved again how awful people could be (and it was also easier to project his negative feelings onto them and be angry instead of - he didn’t even have a word for it).

He browsed the Metro on his way home to keep himself distracted, but he focused on the sports and entertainment section, not wanting to read anything about Moriarty or anything related that would cause him to return to his previous train of thought. There was no point, he had to keep reminding himself, and more so, he dreaded what he may find should he allow it to be thought through to the end.

And so, as he completed his journey home, he thought about the errands that still needed to be taken care of before the little one was born, some final touches to the nursery, clothing and other equipment that needed to be bought - maybe he could go into the shop around the corner from the surgery in his lunch break, tomorrow, and find something nice to surprise Mary with, even though the prices there seemed ridiculously expensive. But only the best for his little girl.

It were these thoughts that, after the emotional strain of the past night and day, brought a smile to his face. He was happy, happy with Mary and overwhelmingly excited to finally meet his daughter. Why regret and wonder about the what-ifs when what he had, now and hopefully for the rest of his life, was good?

The smile returned to his face when he let himself into the flat. He could already smell the delicious scent of the chicken as he made his way towards the kitchen; his appetite, albeit still not strong, slowly started to be awoken by it.

“Oh, hi, there you are,” Mary greeted as she spotted her husband in the entrance of the kitchen. She pushed a hand to the small of her back and stretched against it, holding an oven glove in the other one.  
  
“Sorry, took a bit longer to get here,” John replied and leaned in to kiss Mary gently on the lips. Automatically, his hand reached for the big, round baby bump. “Do you need any help?”

“No, it’s almost done. I’m making roast potatoes in the oven, too. You can set the table if you like, though.”

“Yeah,” he nodded and smiled before he took plates and cutlery from the kitchen cabinet and drawer and brought them to the dining table.

“So, had a good day, then?” Mary asked as she leaned against the kitchen door frame. Despite her smile and casual tone there was a hint of mild concern noticeable.

“Uh… yeah. Bit stressful but all right.”

“Good,” she replied. “And what about Sherlock? Did you go to check on him again?”

An uneasy feeling in his midst caused John to lose his smile for a moment. “I did. He seemed okay. A bit woozy.”

Mary nodded, her eyes fixed on him as he finished putting the napkins on the table and moving the salt and pepper shakers towards the middle. “So he’s not relapsed again? It was just for a case?”

“Yeah. I think so.” It was no surprise Mary tried to get a bit more of a reply from him, but for some reason - one he didn’t want to dwell on - it made him feel quite annoyed. He wanted to enjoy this evening. Not think about Sherlock.

“And you’re completely all right with that?” Finally a trace of disbelief underneath that gentle tone and open smile.

“What am I supposed to do then, hm?”

“Oh, I don’t know? Slap some sense into him like Molly did. Hell, I’d probably have strangled him if I were you.”

“Or you would have shot him.” It had happened within a split-second that his mood had shifted towards tremendously pissed off, and John wasn’t even sure how and why, with the full context of the conversation, it had occurred.

“John!” Mary’s head was tilted, her brow furrowed in mild hurt but also concern for him, and it made him feel both guilty and even more pissed off. “Don’t be like that. You know I’m concerned for him, too.”

“Are you really, though?”

“Yes, I am, and you know it. Those were completely different circumstances. You know I adore him as much as you do.”

John couldn’t stop the sarcastic chuckle leaving him, and for a moment he wondered whether she meant and believed what she said or just did it to elicit a reaction.

“Right. But only as long as he’s no threat to you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That you bloody shot him!” John exclaimed, ignoring the brief flash of feeling caught. “So no talk about strangling him or anything of the sort, because you don’t get to say that. Not even as a joke.”

Her features displayed obvious hurt now, yet she took a step closer towards him and laid a hand on his upper arm. “Are you always going to hold that against me?”

“Yes,” he replied and immediately regretted it. He didn’t want to, he wanted to fully forgive her, to forget everything that had happened, and he’d often before succeeded in believing he had.

“What happened to me and my problems being your privilege?” she said, less reproachful than suppliant.

He sighed and closed his eyes for a moment. “Yes. You’re right. I did say that, and I meant it. Doesn’t mean the whole idea won’t ever make me angry.”

“All right. I get that. But I really didn’t mean I’d literally strangle him. You know that, right?” Still gentle, reasoning, although John had to admit she, too, had good reason to react with more hurt and frustration.

And that did it. Melted away the anger in him as well, leaving him feeling resigned. “No. You’re right. Sorry, love. I’m sorry.”

The frown on her face deepened in sympathy as she laid her arms around him and pulled him into a hug. “It’s been a rough day, huh? I get it. Let’s just make the best of it, okay?”

“Yes. Okay,” John agreed as he slowly broke the embrace and looked at her. Big, beautiful eyes full of concern, those lovely lips of hers, kissable and inviting. He did love her, he really, truly did. That was all that mattered, that should and would matter.

“I love you,” she said softly, and for a moment, just as her lips connected with his, he wondered if she could read him like an open book.

He hoped not.

  
John felt a lot better, both physically and emotionally, the next morning. He and Mary had managed to have a lovely evening: the dinner had been delicious and they had cleaned up the kitchen together, talking about the baby and revising their list of currently a good dozen names (he still liked Julia or Juliet, while Mary had grown quite fond of Evelyn; and they both laughingly cursed the fact that they couldn’t really go for Emma; Emily had come as the next suggestion - for some reason, Mary seemed to like the letter ‘E’ in particular).

They had gone to bed soon after that but, despite John’s earlier fatigue, they had not fallen asleep right away. They had made love and taken their sweet time with it. With Mary’s belly having become quite big it had been a bit more difficult to find a position they both liked, and the whole endeavour had been interrupted with quite a few laughs and amusedly annoyed groans. Mary had not been able to climax that way and so, most readily and to his own enjoyment, he had gone down on her. He really fucking loved doing it, always had. The taste of a woman - Mary in particular - and the incredible and unique feel of a wet cunt around two of his fingers, muscles clenching and contracting and her hard clit between his lips as she came with soft but rapid moans.

He didn’t need to think of something else, want something else, wonder if he’d even like it. He liked this, liked Mary, and that was all that mattered.

However, despite the great start to the day (they had got up quite early and enjoyed a nice breakfast together, as well) after some time in the surgery John could not fully prevent his mind from drifting back to Sherlock. His own shock about thoughts that had stirred, unbidden, yesterday had faded; it seemed far away now, too vague and surreal to have any impact on him now, and he was bemused for it even having risen like that in the first place.

What he could not dismiss as easily was his worry about and compassion for Sherlock, and he found himself once more looking at the ‘clues’ to answer the question that made him experience a great sense of guilt and regret every time he could affirm it. If Sherlock really was in love with him, if that speech, that completely mental but utterly lovely speech had been a testimony of his feelings ( _the two people who love you most in all this world_ ; John had never expected Sherlock to actually say he loved him) then Sherlock was in a situation right now John wished upon no one, least of all his best friend. It was sad to think that such a brilliant mind - though he could be a colossal dick at times - hadn’t even thought it possible to be someone’s best friend, and it became likely that Sherlock had experienced these feelings in the past and never even tried to act on them out of the sheer conviction that they could never ever be reciprocated.

He quickly reminded himself not to wonder whether they could have been reciprocated - by John, and instead only tried to imagine Sherlock with other people.

Maybe that was also the reason why Sherlock had been so nonchalant about using Janine, and as a result, about breaking her heart like that. He probably didn’t even believe anyone could truly love him. How could the git be so wrong? Even if Janine hadn’t been the right choice for him - it also became more and more possible for John that Sherlock might, after all, be gay - he could have found someone, couldn’t he?

John regretted that this wasn’t the kind of topic he and Sherlock could just sit down and talk about, because this was something he _should_ talk about and not be left alone with. Then John realised that he probably was the only person Sherlock ever would, maybe, under very specific circumstances, consider at all to discuss his own feelings with. But crying on the shoulder of your best friend about your object of desire who is also your best friend is never good; John had been in that situation once in his teen years and it had been horribly awkward.

It was much later in the evening when these thoughts resurfaced. He was meeting Greg for a pint or two at a pub. Mostly, they had meant to keep each other updated on any new developments regarding Moriarty - and that was the next thing that would keep John’s thoughts occupied on top of everything else - but, since there was nothing to say on the former, they also simply caught up on their private lives and enjoyed the company of a good mate.

During the two years of Sherlock’s absence - or the two years after his death, if John regarded it from his former viewpoint - he and Greg hadn’t been in contact very much. John had avoided a great many people then, and Greg had probably felt responsible for what had happened. Now, however, and especially since the wedding, meeting for drinks had become a somewhat regular habit of theirs, and John was grateful for it.

“So, how long until the little one is born?” Greg asked after he had taken the first sip of his lager.

“Four weeks, approximately,” John replied, feeling his heart beat a little faster in excitement, as every time he reminded himself that in such a short time he would, indeed, be a dad.

Greg grinned slightly. “Nervous yet?”

“Terrified,” John replied and smirked back.  
  
“I’m sure you’ll do great. You’re a doctor, so at least you won’t pass out during the birth.”

“God, no. I hope not. But that’s the easy part anyway. After that it’s going to be at least eighteen years of worrying and fretting and hoping you do everything right.”

“Well, nobody does everything right,” Greg said.

“All right. True. Then fretting and hoping you won’t do something colossally wrong.”

“You’ll be fine. You’ll see,” Greg replied. “And I mean it. If you can turn Sherlock Holmes into a mostly decent man then raising a child will be a breeze.”

The smile on Greg’s features wasn’t mirrored by John any longer. He looked into his glass before he took a long gulp of the beer. “What if I _have_ cocked up there, though?”

“What?”

John quickly shook his head. “Nothing. Never mind. So… what about you then?” he asked, putting that smile back on.

Greg regarded him with a quizzical look for a moment longer, but then, after another sip of beer, a tiny and rather involuntary looking smirk made the corners of his lips twitch upwards. “Well.” He shrugged as if he had nothing interesting to respond, but the vague hint of a smirk became a rather obvious one.  
  
John raised his eyebrows.

“I may have asked Molly Hooper out for dinner,” Greg replied somewhat sheepishly.

“You have?”

“Yeah. I thought… the thing with Tom has been over for almost half a year now. So…”

“About bloody time!” John said, genuinely happy.

Greg chuckled faintly and lowered his head, arms propped onto the bar. “You know, I’m not awfully good at this sort of thing. My wife and I were really young when we got together, and it was mostly her who… well, had taken the initiative in everything.”

“Well, great that you finally mustered the courage, then. No really, Greg. I think you guys could be wonderful for each other.”

“You think?”

John leaned back slightly to take a closer look at his friend, his brow furrowed. Greg had always struck him as a rather confident and mature type of bloke, but right in this moment he did remind John a bit of a 16-year-old schoolboy.

“It’s not just a casual dinner date, then? You actually have been pining for her for quite some time?” It didn’t even really need answering. Thinking about it now, Greg had seemed awfully disappointed when Molly had introduced her fiancé.

“Pathetic, I know”, Greg chuckled and took another large sip.

“No, it’s not. It was a bit of bad timing, too, wasn’t it?”

“I suppose. First I was still trying to fix things with my wife. Then there was the whole thing with Sherlock, well, you know. It threw us all off course, I guess. And then Molly had Tom.”

“Blimey, that long?” John asked and Greg nodded. “And, this may make me sound like a dick, but I’m kind of thinking it was for the best that it didn’t work out with Tom.”

Greg shrugged. “Well, he was a nice bloke. And he looked like Sherlock.”

“He _dressed_ like Sherlock,” John corrected. He couldn’t quite keep a giggle in and shook his head in amusement.

“I thought that was it, you know? That’s her type. I’ll never measure up to that.”

“You know, Greg, you don’t have to measure up to anyone. You’re a great bloke, and I hope Molly will be able to see that.”

Greg laughed faintly, visibly moved. He cleared his throat before he continued after a pause. “Well, we’ll have to see how dinner goes. Though… she did seem sort of, well,” he made a waving motion with his hand. “Delighted?”

“Good. That’s good. Keep me updated. And all fingers crossed for you.”

It really did make John very happy to hear about such a positive prospect. He cared about both Greg and Molly and could really imagine them being a perfect match. However, it also made him think of Sherlock, and regret and sadness filled him once more for his best friend who could not call himself that lucky - even to only see a possibility. He quickly pushed away any thought of what might have been if their timing hadn’t been so bad.

“Pining for someone you can’t have really must be horrible.”

“Yeah,” Greg agreed, though his gaze drifted back to John instantly with a questioning look. “How’s Sherlock doing anyway? Moriarty business aside.”

For a moment, John wasn’t quite sure if Greg was implying what he thought to have heard there, and it caught him by surprise that someone not nearly as close to Sherlock as John should have seen through it all much sooner. Then again, since the very beginning, everyone had always assumed there was something going on between them in one way or the other.

John shrugged. He briefly considered brushing it all off; after all it wasn’t really his place to go spilling personal details about Sherlock to everyone. Then again, Greg was a good friend and cared about both of them, and John felt desperate to talk to someone, even if not about all the details.

“I don’t really know, to be honest. I mean… you mean he’s actually…” John left it for Greg to complete the sentence. At least that way he couldn’t be blamed for spilling secrets he should better keep to himself.

Greg looked at him with a crooked smirk, less amused than regretful. “In love with you?”

“God,” John groaned and looked away, focusing his glance on the rows of various bottles behind the bar. “So you really do think it’s that? Not just some kind of, I don’t know, fear of loss?”

“Well, I could be wrong, but... You were the first and only person I’ve ever seen him being close to like that, and I’ve known him for much longer than you.”

“Which could still mean I’m just an awesome friend,” John smiled, a bit unconvinced of his own words.

Greg shrugged. “Yeah, but whenever people assumed you were a couple he never corrected anyone. And you know how he loves gloating about how intelligent he is and how stupid all the rest of us are.”

“True,” John admitted.

“Then there was this whole speech at your wedding which had almost everyone in tears. Mind you, it almost had me there too.”

John chuckled faintly and his chest felt both warm and heavy at the memory of Sherlock’s words.

“And then there’s also the fact that he shot a man in cold blood and risked everything for you. His freedom, his work, he gave it all up.”

“He did that for Mary, though,” John replied with an undeniable feeling of doubt for his own words.  
  
“Bollocks. He did that for you,” Greg said. “She’s your wife and she’s having your baby. I’d never thought it possible, but - believe it or not - Sherlock actually cares about your happiness more than his own.” He shook his head at his own words. “You did make a good man of him, after all. A better man than most, and that’s saying something.”

John smiled at Greg briefly, but the heaviness in his chest became stronger. It was gratitude and a bit of surprise, but mostly a deep sadness for Sherlock whom John wished to be happy as well, but there was nothing he could do to help him achieve it.

“I feel responsible, you know. You’re right. He did give up everything, and it’s my fault it got that far.”

“How?” Greg asked, brow furrowed.

“Well.” John didn’t quite know how to explain what seemed obvious to him. “I’m the reason, aren’t I? I mean. Where I am right now. Everything. Mary and the baby.”

“Doesn’t work that way, mate,” Greg replied. “You didn’t do anything on purpose. Things just happened as they did. That’s life.”

John was quiet for a while, just taking a few more sips of his beer and staring at the few remaining foam bubbles on its surface.

“Do you think it could have been different if you hadn’t met Mary?” From any other person and in any other situation John would have found the question quite untoward, and he had to chuckle at himself as he briefly felt the impulse rise to say he wasn’t gay.

“I honestly don’t know. I don’t want to think about it.”

“Sorry, yeah,” Greg replied.

“I mean there’s no point. So why wonder. I’ve just never… you know.”

“Well, these things aren’t always set in stone for everyone. And it doesn’t matter.”

Again, John was silent, and he couldn’t help but wonder. He had never actively imagined anything of the sort with Sherlock, never felt a physical attraction to him, at least not consciously, but in the brief moment he actually pictured himself with Sherlock, kissing Sherlock, he was shocked at how much it did _not_ put him off.

_No, there’s no use._

“So what do I do now?”

Greg let out a faint sigh. “I don’t think there’s anything you _can_ do. I mean, usually the whole ‘be cruel to be kind’ routine works out quite well, but I don’t think… I could be wrong, but I’m not even sure Sherlock would pick up on it or that it would change anything about his feelings. He probably just needs to get over it by himself.”

“Why does he have to be like that, though?” John asked, frustration at how helpless he was surfacing. “If this were happening to you or me we’d have friends and other people to focus on.”

“And Sherlock thinks he’s just got you,” Greg concluded. “I’d offer to talk to him but then again… He’d probably throw a fit or tell me I was being stupid.”

They both laughed helplessly.

“Yeah, that wouldn’t work,” John replied. “I’d suggest he could go see a therapist to get over that crisis, but they’d probably need therapy themselves after one session.”

“Oh God, yes,” Greg replied. “Normal rules simply don’t apply to Sherlock Holmes.”

“No, they don’t.” _And we wouldn’t love him as we do if that were the case_. John didn’t say that out loud.

“Don’t beat yourself up about it like that. Sometimes things just don’t turn out a certain way,” Greg said. “You’re happy where you are and that’s all that matters.”

Yes, John was happy. He had every reason to be.

Just why could that heavy, dull ache of having lost something so immensely important not stop?

~*~

The black limousine stopped at the side of the dark street, its tyres coming to a halt almost soundlessly. The quiet was disturbed only by the high heels that clattered over the cobblestones until their echo was numbed by the interior carpet of the backseat.

“Good evening. I’m glad you made it to our appointment in time.” The male voice was polite, almost sweet, but with an undeniable snideness underneath it.

“I told you I had a busy schedule the other night,” the woman replied in equal politeness, though she was hardly perturbed by her companion’s attitude.

“Very well. We should get right to the point then, as we don’t have much time,” hr continued matter-of-factly. “You will get on the underground in precisely fifteen minutes, get off at the terminal station and take a taxi to the destination as discussed.”

“And he’ll be there?” she asked, the smallest hint of nervousness surfacing in her voice.  
  
“He’ll be there,” he confirmed. “We’ve been monitoring his steps for the past five weeks. He’s been coming back to the old hideout every other evening.”

“Good. And then I give him the documents?”

He raised his eyebrows. “I do hope you’re doing more than giving him the documents. You need to convince him of your affiliation to his former employer first. We did go over the specifics of your strategy. Please don’t let me repeat them.”

The woman briefly rolled her eyes but let out a chuckle. “Don’t worry. I remember that part.”  
  
“Good.”

“And you’re sure we’ll be able to lure him into the trap?” she asked. With each mile they drove her nervousness rose, but also excitement.

“I am quite certain.”

“Quite or completely?”

He looked at her with exasperation but it became never fully apparent, neither in his facial expression nor his tone. It was just an underlying vibe he gave off that was impossible to miss but equally impossible to lay a finger on it. “I _am_ certain.”

She eyed him for a moment and smirked. “You know, you’re quite unlike your brother. A proper cold and calculating bastard.”

The smile on his features lost a bit of its unpleasantness. “I know, and you are quite unlike yours. How lucky for all of us.”

“Well, then,” she said and took a deep breath. “Operation SM is go.”

His glare was icy as he looked at her. “Please don’t call it that.”

She chuckled and bit her lip. “If this succeeds you owe me one.”

“I believe if this succeeds I won’t owe you anything since the success of the mission is to the benefit of all of us. Don’t you agree?”

She shrugged. “I meant like inviting me to one of your fancy dinner parties.”

Cool contempt turned into something almost shocked and affronted. “Do not attempt to flirt with me. It would be a futile endeavour.”

She had to bite down another chuckle. “Relax. One disaster with your kin is enough for a lifetime.”

“I am relieved. Now, as we’ve got such mundane topics out of the way, do you have any more questions?”

“Loads,” she replied but didn’t elaborate on any of them.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this chapter. If you did, please let me know. I'd also be very interested in what you make of the last bit. Not that I'd tell you until it gets revealed in the story, but I'm curious ;)   
> Next chapter will most likely be posted again next Thursday/Friday. Even though I'm still a couple of chapters ahead, I had to rewrite some parts and I still need to add a little something to chapter four. So in case it does take me a few days more (though I'll do my best to prevent it) please be patient.


	4. Chapter 4

His fingers slid over the strings, bow held with precision in his right hand. The sounds, melancholy and familiar, filled the living room and drowned out most of the noises from outside. Sherlock had played all three movements of the Violin Concerto in D Major, Op. 35 by Tchaikovsky many times, and although it was said to be one of the most challenging pieces for the violin - which had been one of the main reasons he had studied it and perfected it, years ago - he played by muscle memory alone. His fingers knew each movement, each sequence coming naturally as sound after sound followed in perfect order.

His mind, fully in synch with his body, completed the concerto with the second movement Canzonetta: Andante in G minor; he could hear the oboes, clarinets and other instruments from memory, too. His eyes closed, the soft, slow melody resounded around him, and he could imagine himself amidst of the full instrumentation, every pause filled with sound in his mind.

It was a state similar to a trance, the music becoming like a drug that dulled all his other senses. And his mind, on a different level of consciousness, began to drift on its own. Another tune, played from a recording, different in character and measure but resembling the section he was playing in one motif, came to life in his memory unbidden. And with it came images Sherlock did not have the will to chase away.

A low, throaty giggle and a face lit up with hilarity as he looked into dark blue eyes. He could feel John’s left hand in his right as if he were touching it right now, slightly calloused palm but soft fingertips - the exact opposite of his own - warm and steady.

The dim light around him turned golden as it had been that day, sun streaming in through a gap in the curtains.

Do we have to dance so close?

Amusement lay in the complaint.

Sherlock could almost smell the faint hint of aftershave on John’s skin. Wanted to lean in closer, breathe it in and find John’s own unique and enticing scent underneath the fragrance.

Closer and closer, his head tilted, leaning in, hips brought forward, chest touching chest and then --

He had pictured it a hundred times or more, then same as now, and sometimes, for a few sweet moments when his mind was hazy with fatigue just before he drifted off to sleep, he had believed it to have been real. His mind produced the image, manufactured the sensations, the feel of John’s lips, the slight scratch of evening stubble. All of these single sensations were known to him, albeit in different context and not all quite from the same source. He had felt another human being’s lips on his cheeks, his forehead, could transfer the sensation to his lips. He had touched John’s face before, had observed his mouth, its movements, the tip of his pink tongue peeking out when he licked his lips. He had all the data and yet what it could actually feel like to kiss John Watson was one thing he could never fully know.

He had wanted to, had hoped for it to happen, in vain; so many times and on so many different occasions. Breathless after a chase, adrenaline pumping through his veins, through John’s, too. A heated dispute, both of them standing close with something crackling between them like electricity. The night they had been drunk before John’s wedding, much more inebriated than Sherlock had calculated for; John’s body language mirroring his as they were sitting in their armchairs. If only that stupid client hadn’t --

It was wishful thinking, a mere illusion of a prospect that had never truly been there. Even though Sherlock could have deduced from many small details that John may have shared his interest on some subconscious level, Sherlock could not trust that deduction because none of his observations were objective.

Yet, he remembered each of these instances, imagined what could have gone differently. Felt himself pressed closely against John, feet aligned as was proper for a slow waltz, their bodies not moving on their own but as one. Felt himself lean forward on his armchair as John did the same and slide between his open knees, their bodies pressed together closely. Felt himself being pushed against the hard brick wall in a dark alley as he reached over, one hand at the back of John’s neck, being kissed fiercely.

It was never quite satisfying, never real. Never enough.

A sound on the staircase brought his mind to the here and now, but he chose to ignore it until he finished at least the current passage of the piece. When he had ended and put the bow down, turning around, he saw Mrs. Hudson standing near the door with a small tray (fresh biscuits and a cup of tea) in her hands. But instead of the expected greeting, her facial expression was contorted in sympathy and worry.

“Oh play something cheerful, dear,” she said, tutting softly as she set the tray on the coffee table by Sherlock’s chair. “And let some light in, it’ll make you feel better,” she added as she went and drew the curtains open.

“Better? I’m not feeling… unwell.”

“Mm-hm,” she just mumbled and sighed. “The entire day of sad violin music. And you haven’t left the flat in weeks, Sherlock. You should really take better care of yourself, dear. Here, have a cuppa and some biscuits at least. I know you haven’t been eating well.”

Sherlock struggled to find a way to brush her off and continue his play, but a part of him knew she was right. And the biscuits did smell good (vanilla and macadamia nuts). He put his violin in its case and walked over to the table to hesitantly take one of the biscuits.

Mrs. Hudson smiled, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“I have left the flat,” Sherlock then said through a mouthful of biscuit. “I had a case.”

His landlady just crooked her head and stared at him sternly.

“Maybe you should get yourself a proper one instead of sitting here, moping. It won’t do you any good if you keep on like this.”

“I’m not moping!” Sherlock retorted stubbornly. He knew he totally was.

Another disbelieving, slightly patronising glance. Sherlock suppressed an annoyed groan.

“Please, Sherlock. Find yourself a nice case. To get your mind off of things,” she insisted. “I’m sure there are loads that could use your expertise.”

He sat down and, letting out a long breath that was not quite a full sigh, reached for his phone.

~*~

Three stab wounds. One shallow, rebound on the sternum. Another: punctured the right lower lung. Third and last, deepest: upper left lung. Clean cuts except for the first: the victim didn’t put up much of a fight. Shocked and paralysed by the attack. The attacker: a person close to the victim.

“So, do you think the gardener did it then?”

“Mhm.”

The third cut is only two thirds as long as the blade of the murder weapon. The culprit didn’t drive the knife fully into the flesh. Not enough strength or reluctance to do it?

“At least that’s what the wife says. The husband wanted to fire him.”

Sherlock straightened up and looked back at Molly over the corpse on the table. Among the many texts and emails he had found on his phone there had been one by herm asking him to come to the morgue and have a look at the latest crime victim, claiming that something seemed fishy about the whole thing. According to the wife, she got home to find a blood stain on the carpet in the living room and a knife next to it. The garden door open, her husband gone. She calls the police; five minutes later her dying husband is found in the van of the gardener who claims he wanted to take the man to the hospital on the wife’s request and that the man had been injured by a burglar.

“Anything else aside from the kitchen knife and the corpse?” Sherlock asked.

“Just the wife’s blouse. I’m to match the blood stain on the sleeve with the victim’s DNA. Standard procedure,” Molly replied.

Something did, indeed, seem a little odd about the contradicting testimonies. “Let me see it.”

Molly looked at Sherlock in mild confusion and… something Sherlock couldn’t pinpoint before it was gone again. Then, she simply shrugged and walked over to a counter where she produced a sealed bag with a pale blue blouse in it.

“Just… I still need that. It’s evidence,” she reminded him with a stern look.

“Mhm.” Sherlock tore the bag open and laid the blouse out on the counter. Cotton and silk, woven in a striped texture. A classic, waisted cut, size ten. Seams and buttons intact. Freshly laundered before wearing. He sniffed it. No detergent but a hint of perfume, flowery and soft: Jean Paul Gaultier Classique.

“Do you want to have the victim’s clothes?” Molly asked but Sherlock shook his head.

Unnecessary. Whether the scent of the wife’s perfume is in the husband’s clothes or not doesn’t tell him anything. Of course they could have hugged or kissed, they’re married.

“When did it happen precisely?”

“Last night. Six o’clock. He was declared dead at six-o-seven.”

“Never made it to the hospital?” Sherlock asked as he continued to examine the blouse. Something caught his eye and he reached into his trouser pocket for his magnifier.

“No. Died just as the paramedics got there. From blood loss.”

“Mhm. Obvious.”

What wasn’t obvious to him just yet was the origin and meaning of the small, red glitter particles on the right cuff.

“Call Lestrade. I need to see the crime scene,” Sherlock said, not quite sure whether the glitter was of any importance but wanting to find out.

“Uh. I’m not sure that’s… I’ll call him, though,” Molly said. A tiniest hint of a flush on her cheeks all of the sudden. Interesting, he thought as he swallowed the feeling of annoyance and frustration over the fact that, yes, it would be difficult to get him on any crime scenes in the near future after he had shot a man in cold blood.

Sherlock took another look at the victim’s body and then closed his eyes, trying to visualise the succession of stabs and the position of the culprit. He (or she) could not have been much shorter than the victim (five foot nine), nor much taller. Sherlock estimated a maximum height difference of two inches and looked at the length of the blouse sleeves again.

“Oh, you’re there right now?” he heard Molly speak on the phone, the first words that had registered in his mind.

Good.

“Hang on, I’m gonna call you on Skype.”

Very good. Sherlock could take a look at the crime scene himself, although being there in person might prove inevitable. There was only so much you could see through a mobile phone display.

“Hi. Again.” An unusually bright smile was on Lestrade’s face as the video call connected, though from the current angle he could only see Molly. Who smiled back and blushed faintly again.

“Hi, Greg.”

Interesting.

“Sherlock’s here. He wants to take a look around the crime scene. I’m going to hand you over.”

The blush even intensified when Molly turned towards Sherlock, and she bit her lower lip.

“Please don’t tell  me how much sex you’re having,” Sherlock said and watched Molly’s facial expression change from pleased to mortified within a second.

“I’m… I wasn’t… We’re not,” she replied in a whisper and then cleared her throat before she pushed the phone into Sherlock’s hand and turned around instantly as if to hide from his glances. Sometimes Sherlock really didn’t understand people. Last time she had seemed quite keen and not in the least ashamed to fill him in on details of her sex life which he hadn’t needed to know.

He ignored the whole intermezzo and looked at Lestrade, who was blushing faintly as well.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Well, congratulations,” he said in mild exasperation. “Now on to the case. Lestrade, red glitter. Have you seen any?”

The detective inspector looked around while holding the phone camera aimed on his upper body, and he seemed to need a few moments to fully focus on the task at hand.

“Glitter?” he then asked, looking back at Sherlock, confused.

“Yes, glitter. Small, sparkly particles. Christmas is over, so where is it from? Do they still have their decorations up?”

“No,” Lestrade replied.

“Look around. Maybe it’s from a candle, or some other decorative item. Or… gift wrappings? Can you see any of those?”

“Hang on.” The picture began to shake as Lestrade walked through the house into what seemed to be the kitchen.

“There’s something here… A small gift from a perfumery. And, yes, red glitter paper.”

“Ah. Unpack it.”

Sherlock could hear a faint sigh from Lestrade, though he didn’t see him any longer, obviously having been placed on top of the kitchen counter and having a clear but useless view onto the ceiling.  “It’s already been opened before. There’s a tear on the corner and the sellotape was removed.”

“Good. Go on.”

“What exactly are you playing at, Sherlock?”

“Just unwrap it and tell me what’s inside.”

Another sigh and the rustling of paper. “Perfume. Dolce & Gabbana. Um… Light Blue, it’s called.”

Sherlock smirked in delight. So his instinct had, in fact, led him on the right track. “Arrest the wife and find the mistress.”

“What? You think the wife did it?” Lestrade asked in surprise. “But the gardener had him in the back of his van.”

“On the way to the hospital,” Sherlock retorted, seeing the puzzle of the case assembled, clear as daylight.

“Who does that? Driving a heavily injured man to the hospital himself instead of calling an ambulance?”

“Apparently a gardener who fell for a clever plan to have him framed.”

“But--”

“How did the police find him?” Sherlock interrupted, quite certain of the answer.

“Because the wife told them his registration number.”

 “Yes. And who does that?”

There was a long pause on the other end of the video call until Sherlock could see Lestrade’s face again, eyes slightly wide with realisation. “How the hell did you figure that out?”

“Obvious,” Sherlock half-lied. He had taken a guess on this part. “The police found the victim a few minutes after he was injured - that could have only happened with a direct clue. Otherwise, the likelihood that his vehicle should be checked routinely just as he conveniently is driving around with a missing crime victim is nearly non-existing. Explanation: the wife told the police exactly what to look for, and the explanation for that: she was collected and calculating enough to give a detail nearly no one would think of after so little evidence of what had even happened in the first place.” Sherlock couldn’t help the small smirk curling around the corner of his mouth as he looked into Lestrade’s impressed face.

“Find the mistress.”

“How… on Earth do you figure he’s got a mistress?”

“The perfume, Lestrade. Don’t be so dull. She’s wearing Gaultier.”

“And… he can’t get her something new once in a while?”

“Unlikely. Men are rarely that bold. He bought it for his mistress, brought it home and accidentally left it on the kitchen table. The wife finds it - hence the glitter on her sleeve - , confronts him, he admits everything. She takes a kitchen knife and stabs him. Then she quickly plans to frame the gardener and the rest is history. Find. The mistress!”

“Yes. All right.”

It was all Sherlock needed to hear before he ended the call and placed the phone onto the counter. Satisfied with himself, although the case hadn’t been that much of a challenge, he grinned at Molly. “Case closed. Lunch?”

There was the ghost of a smile on Molly’s lips before it was replaced by a frown and a glare so angry that Sherlock was sure to have only seen it on her features once before. For half a second, she seemed to struggle with something but then, quicker than Sherlock could have reacted to it, she lifted her arm and her palm landed on his cheek with a loud and painful slap.

“Ow! What was that for?” Sherlock asked, flabbergasted, wondering if he’d said anything that might have offended her - the sex comment maybe?

“That was for the drugs! And if I hear that you’ve done it again I’m going to slap you again, and again and again until you get it into that thick skull of yours that you can’t keep doing this!” It was quite fascinating how Molly could go from calm, professional and friendly (how clever of her to wait until he had solved the case) to shouting and icy glares full of anger and, most of all, disappointment. It was almost frightening.

“Greg told me,” she she went on, tone slightly calmer, but she was still glaring at him. “And he got it from John, in case you’re wondering. We have been through this, just five months ago.”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied calmly, concealing the fact that he was, despite his own liking, quite intimidated. “And same as five months ago it was --”

“Don’t,” she interrupted him. “You can tell yourself or John that it was for a case but not me. I know.”

Sherlock looked at her in confusion.

“I know it’s been hard for you. With… everything. And I know you’re not all right, but drugs aren’t going to make it better.”

“It really was for a case. I needed to recreate the effect the drug had on my client.”

“Which you could have done with a bit of old-fashioned research. A chemical analysis and asking people who’d taken it. I know that and you know that, so stop insulting your own intelligence”, she replied with a smile on her lips that was both bitter and sad. And Sherlock hated to see that look of disappointment and worry on her features, knowing he’d caused it. It wasn’t quite so easy to keep telling her and himself it really had just been for the case.

“Sherlock, what exactly is going on?” she asked, now a lot calmer again, and his resolve seemed to melt under her caring, concerned gaze.

“Well… As you say, it’s been difficult.” It was as much as he was willing to admit at this point.

“Okay,” she said. “But that’s not all, is it? I mean, it should get better, not worse? You…” the regretful smile on her face became ever so slightly embarrassed. “You learn to cope with such things. Get over them eventually. You move on. And maybe you kid yourself for a while with the wrong person but that’s all just another step on the road. And it’s fine. That’s what… what helps you move into the right direction. You don’t go and abuse substances because all they do is keep you feeling miserable and lonely… Not that I have. I haven’t,” she added.

Sherlock experienced a multitude of thoughts and emotions after her words: for one, he felt caught and a tiny bit ashamed that she should figure him out so easily and know of what he did not wish to share with anyone. Secondly, he experienced regret and guilt that he had put her through the exact same feelings, feelings he had never fully understood, but now, as he finally did, wished upon no one he didn’t hate like the plague. And lastly, despite the former, Sherlock was grateful to be relieved of a burden he’d been carrying around alone, though none of it could really make him see a silver lining.

Molly let out a soft sigh and leaned against the counter, right next to him, hands at her sides. “I know it doesn’t seem like it now - and maybe you’ve convinced yourself that for you everything is especially impossible and that this was your once in a lifetime chance because you’re…” She was visibly searching for a proper word. “Different. But you’re not the only one who thinks that of themselves.”

It struck him as such a surprise that Molly, ordinary plain Molly, had ever thought of herself as too different, too odd and therefore undesirable for her to find love. He still didn’t have a proper response.

“But you know, we were wrong,” she continued, and the smile returned to her features, hopeful and happy, now. “There’s always hope. And someone out there who can love you the way you deserve it.” At the last words, she was practically beaming, but then she blushed faintly again and cleared her throat. “Or could love. It’s a bit too early--” She cleared her throat again.

“Well. Unfortunately George is already taken,” Sherlock said dryly.

“Sorry. Who?”

“George,” he replied. “The man that apparently loves you the way you deserve it.”

“It’s Greg, Sherlock. Greg,” Molly said, half exasperated, half amused. She let out a soft chuckle then and nudged Sherlock against the arm with her shoulder.

Sherlock really wanted to believe her, and when he thought about it logically he knew she had a point, but for some reason he was absolutely incapable of imagining himself in love with anyone else. Until a few years ago, he had never even been able to see himself in love with anyone to begin with, and the fact that the first and only time it had happened to him would end in rejection made it even harder.

He no longer truly wished he didn’t care. Caring - for people like Molly - had proven to be an advantage after all, and he found it much easier to not expect that everyone he met should dislike him. But caring for someone as a friend and what he felt for John were such enormously different things that he wished this precise sensation had remained unknown to him forever.

“I’m sorry,” he said after a long pause, and Molly looked back up at him quizzically for a moment before her gaze softened and she smiled.

“It’s okay. I really am over you, you know.”

“I’m glad,” he said earnestly.

“I know.”

Again, they were silent for a while and Sherlock contemplated her advice, but what his thoughts kept circling back to was the same question over and over again: would there have ever been a chance for them had John not met Mary? Would it maybe have just stayed as it had been before? It would have been enough for Sherlock, even if it had meant that John would have engaged in the occasional fling with a woman. As long as he would have come home to Sherlock he could have lived with it happily for the rest of his life.

“I wasn’t the one for you,” Molly continued then. “And that’s just that.”

Sherlock nodded, though he kept wishing he could have been the one for John.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my beta (especially for coming up with the idea to include Mrs Hudson in the first scene), my 'muse' Amanda, to all of you who have given kudos and commented, and thanks to German trash TV (Judge Alexander Holt in particular, for the inspiration for the case... I'm not sure I should have admitted that ^^ Ehem, well). 
> 
> I hope you liked this chapter. The next one should be up in one week again and will, as I'm sticking to the 1:1 scheme for now, be John's POV again. And more M-rated than the fic has been until now ;)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised you some steamy bits, and here they are. Though... maybe not quite what you expected ;) Also, I've been wondering whether I should change the rating to M instead of E. I do plan to include something explicit sometime (though it may not be John and Sherlock; it could be Anderson... with his new girlfriend... who dresses up as a velociraptor. Who knows? Oh, right, I do. But I'm not telling.)  
> I also wanted to mention something regarding the plot, but for some reason I have no idea what it was. Right... Just in case you're wondering, I chose to ignore the months between Mary's big revelation and Christmas. The show did it and I couldn't find a way to not do it that would have been beneficial for my fic. So, despite all those wonderful metas out there (which always manage to make me feel horribly self-conscious about my fic because it's not quite as brilliant as what people in fandom come up with), I'll pretend that nothing of greater significance happened in those months. John could have temporarily moved back in with Sherlock, but nothing happened. They didn't work on a big scheme in regards of Mary, and they also didn't shag ;)   
> Anyhow. Without further ado, here's chapter 5, a bit earlier this time thanks to my beta's quick and thorough work. I hope you like it.

 

John woke up with a distinct feeling of frustration and, even more noticeable, arousal. He blinked and stretched his neck as he became fully aware of his surroundings. He was in their living room; it was afternoon, and he realised that he had fallen asleep in the armchair. Mary was lying on the couch.

The walls of the living room all seemed to be in place again, unlike in his dream where they had disappeared, strangely shaped openings in their place with no logical transition to the garden outside. And a stranger - some kind of real estate agent - had told him it was the newest trend and that nobody needed walls these days anymore. What had frustrated him, though, was that he desperately had tried to find a place to be alone. At first simply because he had wanted to get away, but as the dream had progressed he had needed a place to - well, get off. It was amusing, really, though the faint chuckle that left him hardly took away the feeling of unease that filled him.

Maybe the frustration was borne from the fact that he had been sleeping badly over the past few days, which evidently had also been the reason he had needed an afternoon nap in the first place. For Mary, as it had been almost her entire pregnancy, fatigue during the day wasn’t anything unusual; she took a two hour nap almost daily. John, however, rarely had to have a lie down during the day. And if he did, he couldn’t remember having had such an odd dream and such a rather unpleasant level of arousal afterwards.

He checked his wristwatch and realised he hadn’t slept more than thirty or forty minutes. Mary would still be sleeping for at least another hour.

Good.

He got up and walked to the bedroom as soundlessly as possible, closing the door behind him. What he hadn’t been able to complete could be taken care of, now, to take the edge off, and John tried to remember a bit more of the dream and what got him so aroused in the first place. He let his hand wander to the front of his jeans. He was half-hard already (or still). For a moment, he wondered whether he should go get his laptop and watch some porn, but then again he might actually wake Mary, so he would have to make do with some old-fashioned fantasies and trust that his body would handle the rest.

He sat down on the bed, opening his jeans and pulling them down a bit while he still tried to recall the images of the dream. The open house, more spacious and odd looking, a stranger with a face he couldn’t recall at the moment. But the face had felt familiar, then, so much he knew. That man, however, hardly could have been the one that caused the undesired effect. So John gave up on the endeavour to remember, noticing how the dream images faded more and more from his memory.

Leaning back against the headboard, he let his hand stroke up his thigh and then rest on the hardening bulge in his pants, just rubbing lightly for a while as he tried to make up his mind about a fantasy. Imagining things usually didn’t work all too well for him. John was a visual kind of guy who preferred watching something on the internet - thank God for free porn sites. He almost couldn’t remember how annoying it had been to awkwardly rent a video tape or hide one in the farthest corner of a cabinet and watch the same thing over and over again. Other times, he simply had a quick wank under the shower spray, not needing much else than the purely physical stimulation; but for some reason he had a feeling that approach would not suffice right now.

He didn’t want to imagine Mary; as much as he enjoyed having sex with her, fantasies were there to explore things one couldn’t have in reality and didn’t even need to. If he had actually wanted every single thing he had ever imagined to get off to happen in real life he’d be quite a twisted man. And so, he freely let his thoughts drift in pursuit of an attractive face and an even more attractive body. Scarlett Johansson was hot, especially in her role as Black Widow, with her full lips and her perfect, round arse in that tight, black suit. He did feel a little silly, like some teenage school boy, when he actually tried to imagine himself with her (and he quickly pushed the realisation aside that yes, deadly assassins were what attracted him).

His hand had moved into his pants and, with a few long movements, he had stroked himself to full hardness. Maybe he could imagine that cute brunette at the café where he bought coffee almost daily, but she was always so polite and kind, rather innocent, and the thought suddenly felt awfully intrusive.

To have a hand wrap around his cock, lips wandering down his belly and engulf him, wet and hot… He closed his eyes and tried to picture it, even though the face in front of him was completely random and unspecific. And then something happened that made him halt all his movements and open his eyes: for no more than a split-second, an image from his dream (which he recognised as such then) had stirred and merged with his fantasy stranger, and for an equally short moment he hadn’t seen a naked female body with round breasts and a face with long hair surrounding it but a very familiar other one. With a very not familiar expression and, even less familiarly, with the perfect Cupid’s bow lips wrapped around his cock.

Shock kept him from closing his eyes again, but it did not drown out his arousal and an undeniable feeling of - fuck, that’s hot. For a moment, John didn’t know what to do with this image: to quickly push it away and go back to the cute brunette from the café after all, or to hold on to it, explore it and see what it would do. It happened with him having nearly no control over it when he saw the familiar body, completely naked, lean muscles strained in front of his inner eye.

No, he couldn’t. This simply wasn’t right. He wasn’t into Sherlock in that way, never had been, had he? They were best friends, and while John missed him (even now) and had missed him horribly when he had been gone those two years, there had never been anything sexual between them. He had never even imagined it, never dreamed about it or yearned for it - at least not that he could actively remember. Yet, the desire the image had caused just now was so strong that John could not simply dismiss it as some trick of the mind, some projection of other, purely friendly feelings that were all being messed up by his sleepy, frustrated and horny mind.

“Christ,” he mumbled and bit his lower lip. His hand had resumed its movements, slowly at first, and he noticed that the unbidden images had in no way diminished his arousal.

Fantasies are just fantasies, aren’t they?

Maybe he should just give in, just this once. Maybe he could get it out of his system that way, having been there, having done that and most definitely not having got the T-shirt. Nobody needed to know. It wasn’t cheating - not more than any other fantasy, and fantasies were always fair game. It didn’t mean anything but an interest to explore, to experiment, to have something he couldn’t and definitely didn’t need to have in reality.

Sherlock was still there when John closed his eyes. He could picture him clearly. A hungry look in his eyes (which John had never seen on him). This person didn’t even need to be Sherlock, did he? Not really, at least. He just looked like him, moved like him…

He could almost hear the low, deep sigh that would leave Sherlock’s lips before he took John deep into his mouth. He would dig his fingers into those black curls (why had John never, just once, in the passing let his fingers run through them, just so he could now imagine the texture?). Those lips would be wet and hot around him, more of those faint sounds vibrating around his cock as he let John fuck his mouth. Deeper than most people could manage in reality, sucking him hard - John could really almost feel it.

He had to bite back a moan as the tension in his body became stronger. He slid down further onto the bed, eyes firmly closed as his hand worked on him, and - fuck - maybe he should have done this much sooner, try a proper daydream again instead of letting two strangers do it with annoying music in the background or a shaky amateur camera. Because this was fucking amazing. The further he got, the more vivid the fantasy even became, and John fully gave in to it. No guilt or shame or trying to make sense of it; it just felt too bloody great to spoil it.

He pumped even harder and faster, feeling how he got closer and closer. Sherlock, his head moving up and down, his lean shoulders straining with each movement, one hand moving --

“Do you need a hand?”

John’s heart felt as if it had stopped; his eyes flew open and he instinctively sat up on the bed, drawing his knees in.

Mary stood in the door, a mischievous grin on her lips. “Don’t stop on my account. That was pretty hot.”

But John felt the blood rush into his face, his heart still hammering in his chest, and arousal unpleasantly still there but mood completely ruined. Although he knew that Mary could absolutely not have read his thoughts he felt caught - as if the walls of his own mind were missing and the thoughts behind them exposed for everyone to see.

Mary laughed faintly and furrowed her brow. “Honestly. You don’t need to stop. You do realise this isn’t the first time I’ve seen you wanking?” She still smiled and raised her eyebrows. She was right of course, but mere logic simply wasn’t working at the moment.

“Um… yeah,” he said and awkwardly looked left and right, his knees still drawn up to cover himself from her sight.

The amused look on her features changed into a slightly confused although still amused one, and she shook her head in disbelief. “Oookay. If you’d rather be alone I can just go. No problem.”

“I. Er. No, it’s fine,” John stammered and realised he couldn’t continue what he had started even if she did, indeed, leave the room and close the door. The feeling of being caught strengthened and transformed into shame. John wished he could simply forget the past ten minutes completely and never think of them again.

“Why are you even up already?” he asked then, sounding more annoyed than he had meant to. He tucked himself back in, grateful that he was wearing one of his rather loose pair of jeans today, though he was already getting flaccid.

“I simply woke up,” Mary replied, somewhat defensively. “What’s the matter? You don’t usually mind me knowing about when you have a fap.”

“I don’t mind,” he lied as he finally got up from the bed. “I just wanted some time to myself. That’s all.”

“Okay,” she replied, and John wondered whether she was fully convinced. “Well, then maybe we should get one of those ‘do not disturb’ signs because if you occasionally need some alone time I really don’t have a problem with that.”

“Yeah. Maybe,” he replied and stood in the middle of the bedroom, not quite sure where to go.

“Okay John,” Mary started with a different tone, amusement vanished from it. “Talk to me.”

“I am talking to you,” John replied stupidly.

“Uh huh, but not about what’s going on. Come on. I’m your wife. Whatever it is that’s bothering you I can take it.” Although gentle, her tone was also somewhat… patronising, concealed only by her casual attitude and body language. John wondered why he had never really noticed that.

“I bet you can.” He was sure she couldn’t. “But you don’t have to know everything I do and think.”

Mary eyed him for a moment, and John was sure he saw scepticism and even mistrust in her gaze for a split-second. Then it was gone, and nothing but an amused, benignly exasperated smirk remained. “All right then. And since you’re obviously not going to finish that...” she waggishly let her gaze wander to his crotch for a moment, “tea?”

John felt much more like lying down and hiding his face for the rest of the day, wanting to ban the images of his earlier fantasy - if only he could delete things, too.

“Okay,” he said, nevertheless.

“You know. I can see that you’ve been a little restless lately,” she started again, gaze open and tone gentle. “Maybe you should go spend some time with Sherlock. Find yourselves an interesting case. You don’t know when you’ll next have the time for it.” She let her hand rest on her big, round belly and glanced down for a moment.

John really hoped that, at the mention of Sherlock just moments after -- He hoped he wasn’t blushing, hoped and prayed she couldn’t see through him. “Uh, yeah. I… suppose. I. Maybe.”

He really was a bad liar, wasn’t he?

Mary squinted at him slightly and crooked her neck. “Is there something up with you two?”

“What?” he asked a tiny bit too quickly and too shocked. “There’s nothing -- I’m just really mad about the drugs, still”, he explained. He could almost believe it, too.

Mary had her gaze fixed on him for another few seconds, but then her features softened and she nodded with a smile. “Well come on. Tea then. Go wash your hands, first though,” she added teasingly and laughed, all suspicion forgotten. Or so it seemed.

 

~*~

 

The next day John avoided the café on his way from the tube station to work. He didn’t want to see anything that would remind him of last afternoon. Instead, he tried to keep his thoughts focused on the tasks that lay ahead: first at the practice (going over the inventory list with Lucy, cancer-screening, a family of four with an appointment for flu vaccinations) and later some shopping (bread, cheese, minced meat -- he had a list somewhere in his wallet).

There were still things that needed taking care of before the baby would come: they hadn’t bought the basic hygiene equipment yet, and Mary said that the clothes - especially onsies and socks - may not suffice. Though maybe they should wait with that since people would surely give them something of this kind once the baby girl was born.

They also still needed to decide on a name.

A feeling of dread suddenly spread through his chest, and it took John a moment to recognise it. All this time he had really been looking forward to being a father - after the initial shock - but suddenly, as the date had crept closer, the thought of having a tiny human being to take care of overwhelmed him with doubts and fear. It was as if, for the first time, it truly hit him and became real.

Cold feet were normal, right? As with every life-altering event, doubt and worry were a natural part of it. He probably wouldn’t be a good parent if he took everything as perfectly easy and didn’t worry about cocking up. But despite that rational voice in his head he could still not shake off that feeling that made his stomach feel heavy, and the more he tried to explain it, to name it, the more vague and ungraspable it became without ever subsiding.

He pushed it away as he rounded a corner into the street that led him to the surgery. Certainly this really was just normal and it would go away. There was nothing real to fear and regret. He would do fine, and he’d be happy with the little one and with Mary. Mary, whom he loved despite their difficulties, who made him laugh, who understood him and supported him and never made him feel inadequate. Despite everything about her past and what had happened with Sherlock he had chosen her, and that choice had been right, had it not? If Sherlock could forgive her then so could he.

Unbidden, his brain produced an image quite counter-productive to his reasoning, and he cursed the complexity and irrationality of the human mind as he closed his eyes for a moment and willed away the image of Sherlock as he had seen him in his fantasy, yesterday.

No.

He was just confused. He missed Sherlock and their adventures, and he felt guilty for not being there for him as he used to. And that kiss… maybe it had summoned into existence a level of curiosity that he had never fully explored, but that was completely normal, too. Hardly anyone was really, truly, one hundred percent straight or gay anyway. So whatever was going on in his mind, beyond his control, must just be a natural result of a long chain of wearing, unsettling and confusing events.

But what if I’d never met Mary?

He dreaded to even think that thought through, but at the same time he couldn’t help but wonder and imagine what their lives could have been like had John not fallen in love with Mary. Had Sherlock come back from the dead six months earlier. Maybe, if he did allow himself to think it through just once he could mark it off, could find some closure to what seemed to not want to let go of him. He could find that, once he imagined it in detail, he’d see no appeal in it other than an experiment of thought. He’d realise they could never have worked as anything more than friends.

What would having a relationship with Sherlock Holmes look like? They wouldn’t go on romantic dinners, that bit was for sure. And they certainly wouldn’t bring each other flowers and start using ridiculous terms of endearment - John almost had to chuckle at the thought of Sherlock calling him sweetheart or darling. It would be as fake as the whole affair with Janine.

So what would it have been like? Sherlock flopped down in his armchair, in thought over some case, and John would come home and instead of just saying hello go up to him and kiss him. They’d drink tea, watch telly (Sherlock would complain about how ridiculous his favourite programmes were) and they’d order takeaway. They’d go solve crimes together and, once they got home, would sit down on the couch, maybe arm in arm, and talk about the case or laugh about Mycroft or just wouldn’t talk at all because Sherlock would drift off into his mind palace. They’d still drive each other up the walls - mostly, Sherlock would drive John up the walls - and John would shout about body parts in the microwave and a mess in the kitchen and their bedroom. And they’d go to bed together and kiss and --

Nothing would have changed. Nothing but the physical closeness, the sex - if Sherlock were into it at all. That heavy feeling in John’s stomach became stronger and was joined by a rapid heartbeat when he noticed how naturally he had been able to imagine those aspects into the familiar scenarios. He stopped as he felt his legs getting weak, his head spinning with the realisation that he hadn’t wanted to make. And he wanted to shake it off, to banish it into the farthest corner of his mind but it did not work.

For the first time he knew, felt with every fibre of his being as if that awareness had always been there, that he wanted this. Wished he could have it. Wanted it so badly that his chest ached with an overwhelming pain of loss. Because he knew he couldn’t. Shouldn’t even think about it.

He braced himself against a lamp post, trying to breathe evenly against the drumming in his chest.

“Jesus Christ,” he groaned.

What the bloody fuck do I do?

  
  
  



	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MASSIVE apologies for the long delay. First, tumblr had eaten the fanmail with the google docs link I had sent my beta reader (and we only figured it out days after), and then it took me a bit longer than expected to work on the changes. Which was due to me having a thoroughly shitty week, including lumbago and my sweet, little, tiny baby kitten (well, she's 7 months old now) going into heat before I could have her neutered. Which included not only her 'sexually harassing' my 14 year old Tiger (poor guy was bullied into at least fake-shagging her even though he had no clue what he was doing ^^), but also her starting to mark her territory. Which meant she peed in my bed. Three times. Oh, and once on the couch blanket. You can imagine it's really wonderful having to wash pretty much all of your bedding and change the bed all the time when your back is killing you.   
> Oh well... Whining over. We're both better now ;)   
> Lastly, thanks to Amanda who stepped in and had a look at the chapter after the changes I made, since Erin is on holiday. And also big thanks to all of you who have commented.   
> Now, the new chapter. I promise I will update sooner again next time.

**One plus One makes Three**

_I haven’t updated in a while, and this will  be only a short one. As you know, our baby girl is due in three weeks, give or take, and Mary and I have been terribly busy with preparations and shopping. We’re also awfully happy and excited and can’t wait to finally meet the little one._

_People have asked us what we still need, and we’re both very grateful and touched for all the kind offers and the lovely gifts we’ve already received (Mike, thank you for the baby blanket. Mary loved it and said it goes perfectly with the pram)._

_There are a couple of things we could still use, such as a few more onesies and rompers (Mary says you can never have enough of those), and a few other items. We would prefer gift coupons for baby shops, though, so that we don’t end up having too much of one thing and too little of another._

_Of course we will let you know once our daughter is born so you can come visit us to meet her._

_To everyone I haven’t been in touch with of late: sorry about that, but I’m sure you can imagine why. It definitely is a beginning of a new chapter in our lives. Things won’t be the same for at least about eighteen years (and probably never). As stressful as it has been and still will be, and as much as we miss some of you, we really are tremendously happy about what’s awaiting us and wouldn’t want it any other way._

 

Sherlock folded his hands underneath his chin as he looked at the laptop screen, and he wondered whether he was reading something into John’s words that was there beneath the surface or… just wanted to. Sherlock hated not being able to make sense of things, most of all things of such importance as anything regarding John Watson. But the feeling he had gotten while reading the latest blog entry - namely that something was off about those repeated reassurances of his and Mary’s happiness - wasn’t based so much on logical deductions but more… Well, a gut feeling.

John occasionally had a tendency for exuberant wording in his writing, specifically when he was very pleased with something - Sherlock could find enough evidence for that if he went back to read earlier entries about their cases and adventures. Yet, those instances had much more often reflected wonder and amazement about the extraordinary, not heartfelt declarations about his personal state of mind.

And there was another thing that remained ambiguous: the question of whom the post was addressing in the apology for the lack of contact. A few months ago Sherlock would have immediately dismissed such words as not related to him, would have thought it was straightforwardly aimed at all of John’s friends and relatives. But now, with the knowledge that he was, in fact, John’s best friend and, according to John’s own words, the person he loved most next to Mary, it felt like this line was specifically meant for him.

Though maybe, and yet again, he was simply being vain and self-absorbed.

Who did John miss, then? Greg had just met with him recently. Mike had his own life and family and their friendship had never been based on very intense, regular contact. Harry was an equally unlikely option, and beyond that there were a few friends John enjoyed meeting for drinks but had never given the impression of being awfully attached to. It was possible he simply missed that: a night out with a group of men around his age to talk about all the boring and insignificant things men talked about (usually football or rugby). Such activities had always seemed of interest to John, so maybe it was that.

Though he had aimed the apology at people (“some of you”), not activities.

A lot of the evidence did indicate John wasn’t as overjoyed as he had made it seem, but Sherlock had to realise with great frustration that he didn’t know whether he could trust his own judgement in this case. He let out a faint groan and closed the laptop.

He didn’t wish John to be miserable, not at all, but the prospect of being missed, of being the one factor John needed and didn’t currently have, did relieve him in a way that instantly made him feel guilty as result. Even if he interpreted the blog entry correctly, even if it meant he was almost as important to John as John was to him, it also still meant that there was nothing Sherlock could do about this fact. He had kept his distance in the weeks after he had been called back from exile and again in the week since he had last seen John.

As much as it hurt him - and he hated that, unlike most other undesired physical sensations, he could not stop or ease the constant dull heaviness in his chest - he had let John go. He had given John not only the choice but also good reason to stay with Mary. Mary, who was good for him despite her flaws; it didn’t matter whether she had willingly risked Sherlock’s life (despite not actively ending it), she would never let anything happen to John, would never intentionally harm him, that much was clear. And that much had been and needed to be enough.

Naturally, none of these realisations made it any easier for Sherlock to live with the result of it all. No matter what Molly had said, Sherlock was really quite sure the chance that there was another person out there who would wake the same interest in Sherlock - an interest in every possible aspect, from the emotional to the physical - was statistically nearly non-existent. He had never, not even rudimentarily, experienced or expected to experience anything of the sort, and while he had learned to appreciate many of the people in his life now, there was still a vast, deep difference between them and John Watson.

In the end, it didn’t make a difference whether he came to one conclusion or the other. Whether the blog entry was aimed at him, whether it did, indeed, reflect a certain level of regret or uncertainty, Sherlock would not interfere, would not try to take what he wished could be his. Not from Mary and least of all from the baby who deserved an intact family. After all, Sherlock had made a vow and he had to uphold it, come what may.

There were other things to focus on, now. Firstly, he had to keep his promise to Molly (and yes, Mycroft) to not give in to any temptations he may find. Most of all, he owed that to John as well. Especially now, especially if John was struggling with whatever aspect of his new life he was struggling with. Secondly, he must try to not cause additional problems for John. Show him that he needn’t miss Sherlock, that Sherlock was all right and happy for him and that he’d be happy being the ‘odd uncle’ to the little girl who he couldn’t imagine would be anything but amazing.

Gifts. John and Mary were receiving gifts for the baby, and Sherlock realised he had little to no idea what to give expecting parents. A chemistry set? No, she wouldn’t be able to use that until she was at least three years old - possibly later, since he was no reliable comparison to go with. The mentioned items of clothing? Sherlock didn’t even know which kinds to choose and where to get them. And it also felt awfully mundane.

He wanted to give them something unique, something that both could have only come from him and be useful, and Sherlock had not the slightest idea what that could be. He also realised he knew nothing about babies at all, other than that they cried a lot and were extremely dependent on their parents, and of course he had no recollection of his life before the age of two, either.

Sherlock let out another sigh and opened the laptop again. He needed to start at the beginning, and so he opened Google and hoped entering ‘babies’ into the search bar would at least provide him with enough information to narrow down the search.

Several hours later (after many very useless youtube videos of talking babies and one even slightly disturbing website called ‘Ugly Renaissance Babies’) Sherlock finally closed the laptop again and got up from behind the desk, a small smile on his lips. He had work to do.

 

~*~

 

“My God! It’s beautiful.”

Sherlock watched Mary as she pulled the cord of the plush toy and listened to the soft tune it was playing. Her eyes were wide in genuine delight and a smile formed around her opened lips. “Was that yours?” she asked, obviously having guessed from the slightly worn state of the brown teddy bear.

Sherlock nodded. “My parents had long given up on the idea of grandchildren, so they had no need for it and sent it to me.”

Mary chuckled and kept on listening, turning the toy in her hands to examine it more closely. Sherlock’s gaze travelled over to John, and he could instantly both feel and see a level of awkwardness between them; John didn’t hold Sherlock’s gaze for more than second, his brow was furrowed ever so slightly although he tried to conceal it with a small smile on his lips. This attitude was different from the one John had displayed the last time they had met, and Sherlock couldn’t make sense of what should have brought on this change.

“John, say something, too,” Mary scolded in amusement. “Isn’t it lovely?”

John briefly cleared his throat and leaned in a bit closer. His hands, however, remained in the pockets of his trousers. “Yeah, it’s nice. Thanks, Sherlock.”

Mary tutted softly and turned back to Sherlock with a much warmer display of gratitude. “Thank you so much. It’s really great.”

Sherlock decided to ignore John’s strange behaviour for the moment, though it was difficult since it automatically let his own feelings of regret surface. And more so, despite his knowledge that he had long ago made the right decision for John’s sake, he recognised a biting, tearing jealousy that made his throat constrict. He wished - desperately - he could simply discard and delete this feeling like a useless fact, an error in psychological and physical response that was of no benefit to him. But he could not. Could only pretend.

“It’s… it has a few other functions,” he started, clearing his throat. “In fact, I built the music box myself. There’s a switch on the back, here,” he turned the bear around in Mary’s hands and pointed underneath the flap of fabric concealing said switch. “It has two modes: one allows you to pull the cord and play the music that way, and the second sets it to start playing as soon as the baby is crying. I’ve programmed it to react to the cries of an average baby - I’ve tested it with various recordings. So it should work, but if not I can always make the appropriate adjustments.”

“Gosh, that’s… Wow, Sherlock, that’s amazing!” Mary went on in absolute delight, and Sherlock almost felt a little uncomfortable with it, although pleased with his work. “And such a lovely tune, too. We’ve looked at a few toys like this but none of them had such a beautiful tune.”

“I, well, I’ve programmed that, too.”

The joyful expression on Mary’s features became even more noticeable, and she wrapped her arms around Sherlock to hug him as tightly as her big baby belly would permit. Over her shoulder, Sherlock could spot John who seemed to be torn between similar (yet weaker) delight and that distanced, awkward and - was it shame? yes - ashamed attitude. What was he ashamed of?

“Really, Sherlock, this is the best gift we’ve got so far. So thoughtful and sweet. Isn’t it, John?”

Again, John seemed to need a second before he could make his voice work, and he barely looked at Sherlock. “Yes. I’m sure our little one will love it. Thanks.”

Sherlock could see that Mary examined her husband with confusion and - visible just for a split-second - mistrust. Her gaze drifted directly to Sherlock who gave her no confirmation by smiling at her as wholeheartedly as he could muster.

“Right,” John said, clearing his throat and stepping away from the two of them. “Thanks for coming by, Sherlock, but I actually need to go to the surgery now.”

“But it’s…” Sherlock briefly went over the last few days to determine which day of the week it was. “It’s Saturday.”

“Yes,” John replied, the word long and drawn-out. “But we’re having a free clinic afternoon for the poor and homeless.”

“Oh. Hm.” Sherlock frowned slightly. Despite the odd atmosphere between them and the pain of the constant, dull ache that now seemed to live in his chest, he had actually wanted to spend some time with John. “Give my regards to Billy if he comes by,” he said with another grin, not letting any of his inner turmoil show.

John just nodded briefly, not even reacting to the joke. He kissed Mary goodbye as he headed towards the hallway to fetch his jacket.

“Stay for a cuppa, Sherlock,” Mary said, also not paying attention to her husband’s odd behaviour.

Sherlock was inclined to bid his farewells, too, but something about her lack of action - usually, she had always encouraged John and Sherlock’s friendship and their spending time together - made him decide to stay, if only to find out whether she’d reveal any insight into John’s uncharacteristic mood.

After John had left, with no more than a final nod towards Sherlock in goodbye, she led him to the dining table and went into the kitchen to prepare the tea. “I was just about to make some when you got here. Water’s going to boil in a second,” she called over as Sherlock heard her rummaging through the cupboards. About two minutes later, she returned with a tray laden with a teapot and two mugs. Sherlock only realised then, when he watched her waddle somewhat carefully, that he should probably have helped her.

“So,” she said and smiled as she poured them some tea and sat down. “How have you been then? Haven’t seen much of you for weeks.”

Catching up? That was her agenda?

“Good, thanks. And… you?” He vaguely waved in direction of her belly, again noticing how little he knew about pregnancies and babies.

“I’ve been hardly sleeping, I can’t tie my shoes anymore and my feet are constantly swollen,” she chuckled, giving the impression that she didn’t mean to complain at all. “No, I’ve been great. All’s going really well. She’s already turned in the right direction, so we can expect everything to go smoothly. Won’t be long now.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Sherlock replied and tried to read in her facial expression what intention other than engaging in small talk she was hiding.

“And what’s new with you, then? Any interesting cases lately?”

“No, nothing. It’s been tremendously dull for weeks.”

“And no news on Moriarty?”

_Ah. That._

Sherlock leaned back in his chair and studied her for a moment. Of course she would be interested in Moriarty, knowing what everyone else in London knew. Curiosity about a possible threat, one connected to her husband and his best friend on top of it, wasn’t anything unusual. What was, however, were the signs she was giving off that made her appear… nervous.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and let out a deliberately exasperated sigh. “No, nothing. I really wish I knew what these videos were all about.”

“So, you don’t know?” she asked.

“Nope,” he lied. Mostly.

“And… John said he was dead. You saw him blow his own brains out, right? It can’t be him.” She laughed to camouflage her unease.

Sherlock considered for a moment. If there was another reason she asked - and it was obvious she did at least consider the possibility Moriarty might still be alive - he should maybe limit the information he gave her to a minimum. “Well, I saw him shoot himself in the mouth. There was no brain tissue around the body.”

“Yes, but… you’re sure he’s dead? I mean, you would have checked the body. What did you do with it anyway? The news never said anything about there being a body.” She let out a faint snort and a crooked smile played around her lips. Solely to keep up the appearance of casual interest in the topic.  

“There was no time to check the body. The plan had to be concluded immediately. Mycroft took care of everything,” Sherlock replied calmly and quickly, leaving the conclusions to be drawn from this information open to Mary.

Visibly dissatisfied, she nodded nevertheless and took a sip of her tea. She could have asked whether Sherlock trusted Mycroft, but Sherlock guessed she refrained from it as to not raise any further suspicions.

Instead, she directed their conversation to more mundane matters again. “I’ve missed you, you know?” Reaching over the table, she squeezed his hand and smiled at him. “You should come by more often. Especially when the little one is here, you have to. John won’t admit it, but you know as well as I do that he misses your adventures and all. At least come by for tea from time to time, all right?”

“Promise,” Sherlock replied and tried to return the smile. He was curious about the baby girl, and of course he missed John as well, but… seeing him here with his wife, his home, his family, was nothing Sherlock could endure too often and in too large amounts.

“Though,” a slightly bashful (fake) chuckle. “It is going to be different once she’s here.”

“I’d imagine so,” Sherlock replied matter-of-factly, curious where she was going with this.

“I mean… well, for you and John.” Her expression displayed sympathy and concern (not entirely fake - or maybe Sherlock just liked to believe that). “In the first few months at least. He won’t be able to run off with you on cases for a bit, and… I’m just going to be frank: I don’t want him to.”

_Ah. Two ulterior agendas._

“Don’t get me wrong. I was fine with you doing what you’ve been doing, and --” she grimaced with an expression of self-irony, “I’m not really one to judge such a lifestyle, am I?” Another laugh. “But. We have a baby to take care of now, and that’s a huge game changer. You get that, right?” Tone perfectly empathetic. Gaze concerned. Motif: pure self-interest.

“Of course,” Sherlock replied and - no matter whether her strategy had been somewhat manipulative, she did have a very valid, very relevant point there. “I wouldn’t deliberately put John in danger.”

“I know, I know,” Mary said quickly with that ever gentle tone, and her hand grasped his again. “But it is different now. We are a proper family now, John and I and the baby. Sherlock, you really have to promise me that you won’t do anything to put that in danger. Not with any criminal masterminds and dangerous cases, nor with you taking drugs again and risking your own life, or… anything else.”

_Oh._

“I understand.”

“You do?” Head crooked, tone and voice even more deliberately sympathetic. “Sherlock, you know you mean a lot to us, right? To me, too. And I owe you so much.” Somehow, those words felt as if they cut straight into his chest, reopening the wound she had caused. “I really am grateful for everything you did, and I want us to be friends and you to be a part of our lives.”

Our. There was no John as an individual anymore, and clearly no John and Sherlock. Just John and Mary and the baby with Sherlock standing on the outside, allowed mere glimpses but never more.

“I’ve liked you from the beginning, and I know how important your friendship is.” What she didn’t need to say was that her and John’s relationship was much more important. “And you will always have a place here. You can always call or just come by and if things get bad again and you feel like you’re slipping. You can call us any time. Because we want to take care of you, too. And believe it or not,” she chuckled faintly to relieve the tension and severity of the conversation. “I don’t want anything to happen to you. Honestly.”

Sherlock withdrew from her grasp and eyed her for a moment. There was no indication for her words being untruthful, at least not completely - she probably had convinced herself of everything she tried to convey (and Sherlock pushed away the thought that he, too, had convinced himself of the same for John’s sake). Yet, her intentions weren’t only those obvious on first impression. She knew. She knew, just as anyone else with an average talent for reading people did. Anyone but John - who had never understood, had never truly seen, and probably even now still didn’t grasp the extent of Sherlock’s feelings for him.

“You have nothing to worry about,” Sherlock replied. And he was convinced that, no matter what he wished, he had spoken the truth. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to Amanda who beta-read this chapter while Erin was on holiday (and apparently having the time of her life while my kitten peed on everything I love... ^^ (she was neutered yesterday, is doing fine and no longer peeing))
> 
> Also big thanks for the nice, detailed comments. I so love hearing what aspects of the fic you're enjoying. But I'm also grateful for the many kudos. 
> 
> Oh, and someone was worried I'd given up on the fic. I can assure you nothing of the sort is going to happen. I'm currently writing chapter 12 (I just need to work a bit on some parts and they need to be beta-read), and have the last 3-4 mapped out. I will definitely finish this and continue to post a new chapter every week. I might speed things up towards the end. 
> 
> Now, without further ado, have fun with chapter 7 (which was, up to that point, the one chapter I'd been looking forward to for a very long time. But shhh, no spoilers ^^)

“ So what about Evelyn, then? Evie? You liked it, didn’t you?” 

Mary pursed her lips in thought before she let out a soft sigh. “I did, but…” 

John knew how to read that expression all too well; it had been the default one on Mary’s features for the entire time they had discussed baby names. Not only today but the last time and the one before as well. He was starting to get tired of the topic. 

Looking at his laptop where he had made a list of previous suggestions in a text file he continued to read it out. “All right. Emily, what about that one?”

The expression on Mary’s features didn’t change. “I don’t know. It just doesn’t feel right.” 

“ Right. Okay. Juliet then. Susanne, Carol, Alice, Laura.” He looked at Mary expectantly, but all he got from her was another frown and a distant look as she caressed her big, round belly. 

“ Susanne maybe.”

It was the name John liked least of the entire list, but with the birth date approaching rapidly now he was inclined to just agree to whatever Mary found adequate just to finally get this over with. It wasn’t like any of these names were odd or pretentious, and the girl surely wouldn’t be bullied at school for any of them. Thinking about it, it really didn’t make that much of a difference anyway. 

“ Okay, then we’ll --”

“ Or not. I don’t know,” Mary interrupted him with another sigh, seeming as exasperated with the topic as John was, though less annoyed and more resigned than he felt. 

“ What’s bloody wrong with Susanne?” 

“ You didn’t even like it when we wrote it down!” Mary replied, slightly affronted at his admittedly unpleasant tone of voice. “Sorry… just. Read that other list to me again please.”

John suppressed an annoyed growl as he closed his eyes for a moment. Then he brought up the tab with the most popular British baby names of the year and started to read, skipping only those he outright hated. “Olivia, Emily again, Sophie, Lily, Isabelle, Amelia, Jessica, Mia, Lucy, Alice, Ruby, Hannah--”

“ Not so fast,” Mary interrupted, sounding tired. 

“ Emily, Lucy, Amelia. I like those, so pick one.” 

Mary let out a mildly disbelieving chuckle. “John, it’s going to be the name of our daughter for the rest of her life. I can’t just ‘pick one’ as if picking what’s for dinner.” 

John put his hand on his forehead and rubbed his brow for a moment. “It’s just a bloody name! I don’t know why you’re making such a big deal out of this and why you can’t simply pick one and be done with it.” 

“ Because it matters!” Mary’s voice had risen, trembling slightly with obvious anger and helplessness. 

“ Well, it didn’t matter to you when you just picked a fake name, did it?” John instantly felt guilty for letting his impatience get the better of him and aiming so far below the belt, but the whole conversation annoyed him beyond measure. 

“You know that was different!” Mary exclaimed, shaking her head. 

John had meant to calm himself down, to swallow his - up until that point somewhat irrational - anger and solve the issue constructively, but something started to boil in the pit of his stomach, tingling up his back and to his scalp. “Was it? Well, then explain it to me.”

Mary let out a disbelieving laugh. “We’ve been there, haven’t we? You said my past didn’t matter. You didn’t want to know. Do you really want me to explain to you why I couldn’t keep my real name?”

“ Oh, right. I wouldn’t love you anymore if you did,” John shot back. He knew he was treading on thin ice, and he also knew that going there, urging her to tell him things he had decided to ignore, was dangerous territory. Some part of him did not want to turn around, though. 

“ John.” Mary obviously didn’t want to comply. 

“ Yes, that’s my name. Good one, isn’t it? Too bad we can’t give it to our daughter.” 

“ Okay, now you’re being ridiculous.” 

“ I’m being ridiculous?” John asked with raised voice. “I’m not the one making a huge fuss here. For weeks. Months even. You know, other couples pick a name much sooner. Do you want to keep this up until - when? After she’s born and we have to choose one for her birth certificate?” 

“ No,” Mary groaned, facial expression displaying clear distress. “But I want to pick the right one. This is difficult for me. And you do have a point, you know? Maybe it is because I’m -- I didn’t pick this name because I liked it. I had no other choice.” 

Her confession should have calmed him down, should have made him realise that she was trying hard and wanting to find a solution with him. But for some odd reason it made him even angrier, and he only vaguely felt a sense of… mistrust towards her that made him wonder whether she was just following a strategy or being honest. 

“ Maybe we should find you a new one, too,” he said and looked back at the website. “Let’s see: Erin, Maya, Phoebe, Sienna, Amanda, Ellia, Amelie, Millie, Matilda, Anna, Maisie, Amy --”

“ Stop! Just stop!” Mary cried, her voice shrill and shaky, and tears were starting to show in her eyes. “John. What’s got into you?” 

John was trembling with anger, though he couldn’t quite explain what he even was angry about. For split-second, he thought that he had actually enjoyed getting under her skin, upsetting her, making her cry, and John had to banish that thought into the farthest corner of his mind lest he wanted to be utterly disgusted with himself. 

He wanted to yell at her, to scream and shout - what, he didn’t even know, nor why. Just that he simply could not contain that rage in him for much longer even if he wanted to. 

He took a deep breath and looked at the monitor again, if only to stop seeing her tears. He could tell her he was sorry, could say he was stressed and that this had been another of the occasions in which he got mad at her for what she’d done. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t bring himself to  _ feel _ it as he had done before. 

“ I… I need to get out,” he said, forcing himself to at least remain calm now. 

As he got up from the chair, he more heard than saw Mary swallow and snuffle, and she, too, was quiet and calm when she spoke. “You hurt me, John. And it really wasn’t fair. But... go. Just… calm down and we’ll talk about this later.” 

John nodded without really looking at her. They definitely would have to, but right now he simply needed to get away. 

~*~

John would have liked to think he had no clue how he got to the place he was currently at, least of all why, but he knew it wasn’t true. 

He had wandered around the neighbourhood aimlessly for a while, to a nearby park and through, just meaning to clear his head. But on his way back, his steps had automatically taken him to the tube station, and from there it had taken but a moment’s hesitation until he had made up his mind. He had been driven by a sudden aching desire to see Sherlock, to go to Baker Street, his safe haven. Though the feeling of security was a dangerous illusion; John realised this as he stood in front of the house, staring at the door with a feeling of trepidation rooted deep in his gut. He should turn, should go back and forget what had made him come here. 

Not tonight, not with his current state of mind. He shouldn’t be here. 

John turned around. And stopped two steps later. 

There was no harm in seeing his best friend, was there? He tried to tell himself that, tried to believe it. But there was something inside of him that had been set in motion which he couldn’t stop, and John found himself in the middle of it all as if caught in a mechanism that continued moving and moving and dragged him along, no matter whether he wanted to or not. 

He really should go. 

Something on the first floor caught his eye: the movement of the drapes being drawn to the side, and a silhouette, tall and dark against the dim light inside. 

John took a deep breath and let his steps lead him to the front door and through. 

He just wanted to spend some time with Sherlock, that was all. They were friends, best friends. It was all normal, all fine. He repeated that inner mantra with every step that took him upstairs. He was just upset and confused and needed to spend some time away from Mary. That was all. 

The door of the living room stood open, and John stepped through, ready for a friendly greeting, for a smile on his lips, for a question on potential new cases, or thai food or -- 

Any thought vanished from his mind as soon as he saw Sherlock, standing there by the left of the two large windows. Looking at John with an expression that, albeit subtle as was usual for Sherlock, made him almost look like a beaten dog, and John knew that Sherlock knew, had deduced what must be on his mind. 

All resolve in him crumbled to dust, and John couldn’t do anything but stare at his best friend for a few, long moments. Everything he had tried to bottle up: the previous anger - now more at himself than Mary - the confusion, regret, longing; it all threatened to explode within him. 

“ Why?” John asked, his voice shaking with anger and helplessness. “Why, Sherlock. Why  _ now _ ?”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed for the tiniest of moments, but then his shoulders slumped and he looked away. “You know why. It was beyond my control.” 

John couldn’t help the strained chuckle escaping him, and he shook his head. If he had doubted even in the slightest that Sherlock would know the reason for John’s outburst that doubt was completely destroyed now. “You know what happened.” It wasn’t really a question, though Sherlock answered it nevertheless. 

“ I have a theory.” 

John nodded and lowered his gaze for a moment, taking a deep breath, unable to process that they were actually having this conversation and even more unable to find a way to simply retreat from it. “You… You kissed me.”

“ Yes, I thought as much.” 

“ You. Sh--  _ Why _ did you do that?” John felt his heart race, trembling slightly with that odd, strange kind of anger… fear… whatever the feeling was that he could neither grasp, put away nor direct at anyone or anything. It was just simmering deep inside his chest. 

“ I thought that was quite obvious.” Despite the reply that sounded somewhat defiant, sarcastic, the expression on Sherlock’s face as he looked at John again made that feeling inside him twist painfully around his heart. 

John swallowed and struggled to keep an even breath. “Jesus, Sherlock. I. You. I didn’t even think you were gay.” 

“ I never denied it.” The utterly defeated look remained but the words sounded free from any reproach. 

“ Yes. No,” John replied, trying to make sense of it all. “But… what about Irene? What about ‘the Woman’? I thought if you’d ever. I thought it would be with a woman.” 

For the first time, Sherlock’s features displayed surprise and confusion. “A woman?” He asked as if it was the most unusual thing to assume. “But I did tell you girlfriends weren’t my area on our first evening together.” 

John stared at him in disbelief for a moment. The anger and frustration in him was definitely dominating there for a moment. “You actually expected me to remember every word? And… to know… to  _ deduce _ it meant boyfriends  _ were _ your area? In case you’ve forgotten, I’m not like you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock made a noncommittal motion with his hand. 

“ And besides, you also said you were married to your work. So.”

  
  


“I was. I did.” Sherlock looked away again and took a few steps toward the fireplace, hands behind his back but fingers wriggling nervously. “It doesn’t matter. Just forget about it.”

“ Forget about it?” John laughed out in exasperation. “How do you expect me to just forget about it? The bloody cat is out of the bleeding bag now, isn’t it?”

“ Yes, but it doesn’t need to matter. John…” Sherlock’s voice was tense, his eyes begging and pleading as he looked at John. “I can forget it, and we never have to speak of it again.”

“ But I can’t do that!” John’s voice rose with desperation. Why did Sherlock not understand that? “It doesn’t work that way for me.”

“ Then tell me what will work,” Sherlock pleaded as he took a step towards John but halted right away. In the slightly shorter distance, John could see a faint glistening in Sherlock’s eyes. “Tell me what you want me to do.” 

“ I want you to tell me why now,” John continued, still struggling with that tight, twisting feeling in his chest as he watched Sherlock looking so helpless. 

“ You know why now,” Sherlock replied, agitated. “I didn’t think you were real. I thought I’d just hallucinated you. I would never have--”

“ No, that’s not what I’m asking,” John interrupted and, for the first time, started to realise that Sherlock still had no clue, had no idea whatsoever why John needed to know and what was going on in his own mind at the moment. “I’m asking why _ now _ .  Why have you never said anything earlier. Before… before it was too late.” 

Shock became plainly obvious on Sherlock’s features: his eyes widened, and it looked like he had forgotten to breathe for a moment there before he released the air he’d been holding in with a shaky sound.  

“ I didn’t think you’d want me.” 

He looked utterly destroyed there, beaten by the realisation of what he had been missing all along, and it was that look, the awareness of what Sherlock must feel in that moment, that made John forget everything and all that should matter, that he had told himself was important and right. And again, as if controlled by an outer force that led him to the only possible option, John moved forward. 

As their lips connected, rough and desperate, hands seeking to embrace and pull closer, John felt everything fall into place. Everything he had wondered and doubted and denied, it all disappeared, transformed into one overwhelming and all-encompassing feeling of:  _ yes, this is right. _

If he looked back to this moment later, he would find it almost amusing. The slight awkwardness in their movements, how he was straining to meet Sherlock’s lips while standing on tip-toe - why did he have to be so bloody tall? - and their hands fumbling, colliding as both didn’t seem to know where to touch, how to pull each other closer and closer still. As if they wanted to crawl into one being and never stop. 

Sherlock sighed ever so faintly against John’s lips; his body was so warm and trembling slightly, and John couldn’t get enough of it all. There was no hesitation, no sign of discomfort in the way Sherlock returned the kiss, either: lips open, tongue teasing and rubbing against John’s. The kiss was so intense, rather impatient even, that John couldn’t remember when he’d last felt himself connect with anybody with such force. He wasn’t sure he ever had. Maybe everything he had done and seen and experienced throughout his life had led here, and, even though he wasn’t a religious or even spiritual man, he could not think of it differently. That this was the height and the one crucial turning point in his existence with everything before just having been another step to this one destination. 

And Sherlock wanted it so much, too, must feel exactly the same way, because his hands clung to the front of John’s jacket and his hips moved in and his lips never stopped kissing as if he were drowning and John were oxygen. And damn, John was hard already, a warm tingle in his entire body, his heartbeat fast, his entire being just raw need for Sherlock. 

Suddenly, though - and John had no idea whatsoever how long their frantic kisses had lasted - Sherlock drew away. He was breathing rapidly, face flushed, lips red and glistening and slightly swollen, and John’s first instinct was to cross the distance between them again and continue where they had left off. Another part of his consciousness seemed to wake up, then, and the elevated heartbeat turned into one of shock, mirrored on Sherlock’s features. 

“ This--” Sherlock started, making a helpless waving motion with his hand, his entire body language skittish. 

John remembered where he had been before, who he was. As if he really had lost all memory of it for a few, brief moments, and now it returned like a bucket of ice water thrown in his face. 

“ Jesus. What am I--” He wanted to discard that feeling of guilt, wanted to just bloody forget about it all and do what he wanted to, what he had realised as strongly as never before. If it were for Mary alone he was sure he would have just done that. 

“ You’re…” Sherlock started, an expression of guilt and regret on his features that was similar to what John was feeling. 

“ Having a baby.” 

They just looked at each other for a long moment, and John could have sworn that he had never seen Sherlock’s eyes so sad. 

Then, a tiny smirk made the corner of Sherlock’s lips twist upward. “Well, Mary is.” 

The faint laugh that escaped John almost made him choke up, and he swallowed, taking a deep breath through his nose. 

“ You’re not a kangaroo,” Sherlock added. 

John looked at him, wanting to laugh but feeling like crying. “You’re thinking seahorses,” he said nevertheless, though the smile on his lips must look more than pathetic. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes up in thought and then nodded. “Right. They look somewhat similar, though.”

John did let out a soft laugh, then, though his eyes were burning and he had to blink. Breathe in, hold it. Not let it out. 

They stood apart, a good two, three steps between them, and for the longest moment John didn’t know what to do, what to say. It broke his heart to see Sherlock so defeated, though he tried to conceal it, one hand in his trouser pocket, a small smile on his lips that didn’t reach his eyes. 

“ How do you always do that?” 

A tiny crease on Sherlock’s brow. “What?”

“ Make me laugh when--” he was breaking inside. “Sherlock is a girl’s name?” he prompted, and it suddenly hit him that the situation had not been so different then. That Sherlock had done everything to make their farewell as easy as possible. And that he had, in fact, worn the same sad look John only recognised now. 

“ And… This. You stopping me.” He couldn’t say from making a mistake. It hadn’t felt like it, and although he rationally knew it had been one, most of him didn’t want to believe it. “Who are you and what have you done to Sherlock Holmes?” he tried to relieve the tension with humour, not feeling that either but instead a sense of wonder and admiration as he finally began to fully understand how much Sherlock had changed. Or how much of him that had been hidden now surfaced. “No, seriously. What happened to you?” 

Sherlock looked at him for a moment, the faint smile now gone but the expression on his face earnest, regret still present but also… something John didn’t dare name. “You.” 

It was as if the answer knocked all air out of John’s lungs, and he honestly didn’t know if and how long he could keep himself from just breaking down and allowing the sorrow inside him to find an outlet. 

“ Besides,” Sherlock continued, and he started pacing a few steps back and forth again, somewhat nervously. “Your daughter deserves a happy home and an intact family, you know that more than anyone. And you love Mary and she loves you. I’m just… bad timing,” he ended somewhat lost for words. 

John frowned as he repeated Sherlock’s words in his mind. They had never spoken about John’s childhood, about his father, but it didn’t come as much of a surprise that Sherlock had deduced this detail about John as well. The guilt he hadn’t quite wanted to feel became stronger and John actually had to sit down. He chose the sofa, closest to the door and farthest from Sherlock - though some part of him still wanted to ignore every voice of reason and just kiss Sherlock again. 

He wanted to say something, to vent his anger and frustration, to apologise to Sherlock for even letting it come this far, to blame everyone and everything for this - yes, horribly bad timing. But he simply felt too drained for it, oddly numb and resigned. 

“ John?” he heard Sherlock from the other end of the living room. “Are you all right?”

And that did it. John laughed faintly in disbelief as he felt he could no longer fully contain the tears that burned in his eyes and tingled in his nose. He buried his face in his hands, rubbed over his skin, took two, three deep breaths and tried to calm himself. Tried to push back the disappointment that he now clearly recognised as aimed at himself, but he mostly failed at that. He had come here,  _ snogged _ Sherlock only to leave again in a few minutes and return to his wife and soon to be born child. And Sherlock asked him if  _ he _ was all right?

“ No, I’m not,” he replied, truthfully, blinking away the tears in his eyes as he looked back up. “I should go,” he said and got up.

Sherlock nodded faintly, though his shoulders slumped and his face looked haunted by fear and regret. “I’m sorry, John.” 

“ You’re sorry? Jesus--”  _ Breathe in, out, in, out. _ John straightened his shoulders. “Sherlock. You… I’m.” A shaky half groan, half sigh left him. “Listen, Sherlock. You didn’t do anything wrong. Okay? You… I started this. Tonight, and… if it’s anyone’s fault then it’s mostly mine but more so the fault of the bloody universe.” And finally, that anger in him surfaced and he found the feeling to be much more liberating and easier to deal with than the earlier one of numbness and regret. “So don’t tell yourself it’s your fault. Don’t… just... Okay?” 

Sherlock nodded after a moment’s hesitation, but no words came over his lips. 

John let out a deep breath, halfway relieved - though only on the surface. He slowly got up, knowing he should leave now. Not tempt fate any longer. He wanted to head towards the door when, suddenly, Sherlock’s phone chimed and announced a text message, and John waited to at least give Sherlock an opportunity to say goodbye after he had read the message.

“ John,” Sherlock said with a faint, shaky tone, and John looked back at him, his eyes widening. 

“ What?” John asked with a bad feeling of foreboding in the pit of his stomach.

“ It’s Mary.” 

  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so, sooo much for the lovely comments! I haven't replied to every single one (mostly due to the - somewhat ridiculous - reason of not wanting to boost my own comment count too much; I'm too honest, haha), but they made me extremely happy. Especially that you're liking the characterisation and dialogue. 
> 
> Posting the new chapter a little sooner now. Thanks to Erin for the quick beta. And as I've said before, don't worry about this not being finished. I am somewhat stuck at the moment (still chapter 12) but I should be able to continue soon. After all, I really can't fucking wait to write chapter 13 (erm, sorry for being such a tease ^^). 
> 
> Anyway, here's chapter 8. Enjoy!

_ Earlier _

As soon as the front door fell shut with a loud click, Mary got up from the sofa and went into the bedroom. She opened the bottom drawer of the dresser and, cursing the fact that her voluminous belly was in the way, knelt down to reach inside. With difficulty, she finally removed the board at the back of the drawer to reveal the hidden compartment and take out the small black bag which she opened quickly. She paused for a moment and listened intently for any sounds; John might have changed his mind and come back, but all was quiet. 

She switched on the old mobile phone and waited until it had connected. And, just as she had hoped for, it vibrated in her hand to announce an incoming text message just a few seconds later. 

_ If you’re sure about this we need to talk. The lab, tomorrow. Text me if and when you can make it. _

The message had been sent the previous night. Mary felt a tingling of excitement and anxiety creep up her back, yet she barely hesitated until her fingers typed a quick reply. 

_ Can be there in 30 minutes. Confirm. _

She put the bag into its previous spot and closed the hidden compartment and the drawer. The phone went into the pocket of her trousers, though, as she pulled herself back up by leaning on the bed. The feeling of nervous anticipation intensified, making her heart beat faster, and she couldn’t even prevent it from happening. She wasn’t looking forward to seeing him, per se, and a part of her also knew that the smart and responsible thing would be to stay away from any possible danger, to protect her child and stay at home, especially this close to the birth date. But she needed to know, needed to find out if he - or they - were being played as he had suggested in his previous messages. If she wanted to have a chance at a quiet and peaceful life with John she needed to get to the bottom of this and, should she find out she was not yet safe for good, do everything in her power to make it so. 

As she left the house a few minutes later, she briefly considered calling a cab; driving had been a little difficult already when she had only gone to the bakery two days ago. However, it was best if no one saw her and knew where she went, and she could also explain it away by saying she had been driving around the neighbourhood to look for John, should he get home before she returned. Even though she knew he’d calm down, then feel guilty and apologise, the argument had not left her untouched. Lately, and despite what things had looked like after their reconciliation, the mood between them was tense. Mary knew she needed all the more to remove any potential for John to find out more about her past, most of all the part that would ruin their relationship forever. 

And then there was Sherlock. Mary knew that she was treading on thin ice. If she wanted to keep John she had to give him enough freedom, enough room for his friendship with Sherlock. Though if she gave him too much, and if the occasions in which John became frustrated with her increased, she might lose him as well. And she could not let that happen, no matter what. John - their marriage, the family they were building - was the one good thing that had happened to her; the only thing true in a world full of lies and deception she had been a part of, had been drawn into, for so long. If it required a few more lies and schemes to ensure she’d keep it all then she was more than willing to pay that price. As long as John never found out she wouldn’t hurt him with any of it. 

Mary needed to protect herself, but also him from all the dangers and painful truths. John, her family, was all that mattered now. 

Pushing the driver’s seat back a few inches and finding she could still reach the pedals, she made her way to Bromley By Bow and the building she hadn’t visited in more than five years. 

It was long dark when she arrived, finding the driveway to the abandoned four-storey building muddy and bumpy. Once a pharmaceutical research and production facility, the brick building had been long-abandoned and neglected. Most windows of the upper floors were either cracked or removed completely, graffiti covered the facade and bushes and weeds had overgrown what once must have been a forecourt with parking lots. 

She stopped the car and got out. As she approached the wide steps to the main entrance, she checked for her gun in the back of her waistband: all there and in a position that would allow her to draw it quickly, should the need arise. Though she had little reason to expect it. Both Sebastian and she wanted the same thing, after all. Initially at least. In which direction it would lead them afterwards was irrelevant.  

The building lay in almost complete darkness, save for a flickering lamp by the staircase, and she looked left and right, listening intently in the dark. It was chilly, and a cold wind swept through the cracks and window holes - not the ideal circumstances to wait there for long or secluded enough to have a chat. The laboratories, then. Downstairs. 

Careful not to slip on the messy stairs - paper and plastic, empty bottles and cans as remnants of the building’s countless temporary and longer term inhabitants - she held on tight to the handrail and descended the first level, and then the next. It was pitch-black down there and she had to feel her way around the walls. Same as she could remember, she found a heavy iron door, only an inch ajar and held by a narrow piece of wood, and surely enough there was a faint gleam of light coming through it. She opened it and walked in. 

The long corridor had doors to its left and right, but she was looking at none of the rooms - former labs and archives. Instead, she went farther towards the end of the building, following the faintly increasing light until, after turning right at the end of the corridor, she found herself in the large, open room that must once have been used as storage. Only a few remaining shelves, empty except for dirt and waste on them, stood against the grimy walls, and two neon lamps dimly illuminated the space. 

At the very end of it, by an old wooden chair and a small table, stood Sebastian Moran, and her heart nearly skipped a beat with excitement, slight trepidation but also something almost akin to joy. 

“ Hello Kate,” he said and took a few steps closer. “It’s been a while.” 

He was wearing a dangerous smirk that let the wrinkles around his eyes on his sun-tanned skin appear even deeper but certainly not unattractive. His dark blond hair was greying a bit now, too, but his body - clad in military trousers, combat boots and a simple khaki t-shirt - had not seemed to have aged one bit. She could imagine quite well that he still started each morning with one hundred push-ups. 

“ Four years, give or take,” she replied nonchalantly as she, too, came slowly closer. “Though I hadn’t thought I’d ever see you again, to be honest.” 

“ Ah, yes,” Sebastian said, that smirk never fully leaving his lips. “Neither had I. Though you didn’t put that much effort into covering your tracks,” he added, sarcastically.

She snorted briefly as her slow steps came to a halt. As she felt a soft, unpleasant sensation in her lower body - probably from the drive and the strained descend down the stairs - her hand automatically came to rest on the big round bump in front of her, barely concealed by her wide coat. 

“ Married life suits you,” Sebastian said and casually leaned against one of the shelves. Again, there was an unmistakable trace of sarcasm in his voice. 

“ I didn’t come here for small talk,” she said calmly. 

“ Oh, don’t be like that, Kate. Four years and not a single word. Forgive me that I’d like to have a bit of conversation with you first before we get down to business. So… John Watson, eh?” He snorted faintly. “A military man no less, but… I’m actually a little hurt that you went to something like that after me. Aside from the few unlucky blokes you just used as cover.” 

Mary felt her eyes narrow and she raised her chin defiantly. She may have been drawn to the tall, muscular colonel once, physically at least, and even emotionally in a way - he had made her laugh, had made her feel alive, desired and powerful - but that was in her past now. 

“ I’m sorry about that,” she replied dryly. 

“ Does he even know what a wicked little bird he’s let into his nest there? Surely you haven’t told him, or have you?” 

Mary started to get impatient, and a tiny voice in the back of her mind told her that it may not have been such a good idea to have come here, after all. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business, Sebastian. I came here to talk about Jim. So talk. What do you know?” 

Sebastian eyed her for a while, his gaze travelling down and back up again with a leering smile before his expression became serious and his tone business-like. “I haven’t seen him for the past three years. He was dead for all I knew. Did you ask Holmes to confirm?” 

She nodded. “I did, and he said he saw Jim shoot himself in the head.” 

“ And the body?” 

She hesitated for a moment, remembering the conversation she had had with Sherlock, and she wondered whether she should reveal everything she had learned - but then again, there was no guarantee Sherlock had even told her the truth. 

“ He said it had been taken care of. I couldn’t press for the topic any more without raising suspicions.” 

“ He could be lying.”

“ I know,” she agreed. “So, what do you know? What’s up with that video?” 

“ Not much,” Sebastian started. “But there is a new player in town who is allegedly Jim’s new right hand. A woman.”

“ A woman?” she asked in surprise. From all of Moriarty’s former associates she had been the only woman to make it into his inner circle, and even there she hadn’t been nearly as involved as Sebastian himself. 

“ His sister. Bet you didn’t even know he had one.” 

“ No, I didn’t. And you know she’s who she claims to be?”

“ Yes. Jim introduced us once. Many years before you joined us. The thing is, he never spoke of her after that. They weren’t close, didn’t even grow up together most of the time.” 

She nodded. “So you have reason to doubt her. If she’s not working for him, then what does she want, and who is she working with?” 

“ That’s what I’d like to figure out. You see, she gave me top secret info - stuff only the government could get their fingers on. I checked every aspect of it that I could and the info seems legitimate.” 

“ Info on what?” 

Now it was Sebastian who hesitated as he looked at her, and it wasn’t all that difficult to guess that he, too, didn’t fully trust her. “Let’s just say info on the exact details of a very secret conference of some very influential people. I’m to organise an attack, and the whole mission will be generously paid for by a few interested parties.”

“ Terrorist organisations?” 

“ Some big cells, yes. Al-Qaeda is said to be one of the sponsors.” 

“ And you don’t buy it?”

“ I’m not sure,” Sebastian replied. “It wouldn’t be the first time Jim made a few mill on the side from similar services, but… it somehow lacks his usual style. I could be walking into a trap.” 

She considered this for a moment and wondered whether Mycroft Holmes had his fingers in the whole scheme. He could have faked the videos for this exact purpose, found Moriarty’s sister and -- 

Her breath caught in her throat at the thought that this might very well be a trap, and that she could have walked right into it as well. Even though she trusted that Sherlock wasn’t going to try to discredit her any further - he had a much too soft, big and naive heart for that - but the elder Holmes brother was an entirely different matter. 

“ How do we find out?” she quickly asked, forcing herself to appear calm and collected despite her previous suspicion. She also wanted to end this conversation as quickly as possible and head home. The faint unpleasant feeling in her abdomen and small of her back returned and she rubbed her belly carefully with one hand. 

Sebastian, however, didn’t reply at first. He crossed the remaining distance between them with a few, slow strides, and he looked down at her for a moment before his hand reached up and gently caressed her cheek. “I  _ have _ missed you, Kate. You were never just a plaything for me, you know that. You were fierce and sexy and smart. And you’re still so beautiful. Even as a blonde” 

Something in her just didn’t catch on with the events as quickly as it should. The memory of the strong attraction between them made her forget all else for a few short moments. She looked up into his green eyes, felt his warm breath on her lips already. Could remember what it had been like to be kissed by him. Closed her eyes and --

The safety of the gun was released with a click. Her gun. 

“ Sorry Kate.” 

Her eyes widened in shock and her first thought was:  _ this is it. I’m dead _ . 

But instead of the shot she expected, he tossed the gun to the ground, far away from them and, before she could put up a fight, had produced handcuffs and quickly secured her to the iron bar of a shelf. She breathed out in momentary relief but pulled against the cuffs anyway. 

“ I’m not going to hurt you, Kate. But right now I need you for something.” 

And with that he walked out of the room, leaving her no means to escape and quite a good idea of what he was planning. With shaking fingers of her free, left hand, she awkwardly reached into her right trouser pocket for her phone. Only to find that she had absolutely no reception here. 

~*~

Sherlock knew the building. It was one of the many derelict sites in greater London, and one of the few in the area after the 2012 Olympics. It was useful to know the many possible hiding places of criminals, drug users and the homeless, and so Sherlock had memorised the exact location of most and visited many. 

The former lab in Bromley by Bow was 9 miles from Baker Street, 31 minutes by tube but significantly less by cab, especially in the late evening and even more so after paying the cabbie an extra hundred to drive as fast as he could. Nevertheless, it had taken them 22 minutes from the moment Sherlock had received the text ( _ Got something of yours and Dr. Watson’s. Z&E Bio lab. Come and pick her up _ )  to running up the muddy driveway. Mary’s car was parked on the site; clearly no false pretence that had lured them here, then.

Sherlock stopped and reached out to grab John by the arm before he could sprint up the stairs to the entrance of the building. “Wait.”

“ My wife’s in there!” John shot back, his face twisted in agitation, and he was breathing hard. 

Sherlock nodded, pushing aside the irrational, unbidden stab of grief that should have no place in his thoughts right now. “Yes, and if we want to save her we need to consider our steps carefully. Gun?” 

John brought it forth from the waistband of his jeans and unlocked it, and Sherlock mentally had to thank Mycroft that he had managed to get a murder weapon released from the evidence vault and returned it to its previous owner. He, himself, was unarmed. 

  
  


“Follow me,” Sherlock said and stepped through the hole in the facade where once had been a double-winged entrance door. 

In the lobby, there were various items of garbage, some old mattresses and blankets, cartons and plastic waste, no furniture, doors and most of the plaster walls long removed, no lighting either. The upper floors had been completely gutted. There was a single lamp, however, at the top of the staircase leading to the basement floors - recently added with a makeshift fixture and a cable… There must be a generator to produce the little electricity someone needed to operate from this place. Not a temporary hideout then but a regular base. 

Sherlock started down the steps, John on his heels. He tried to keep his steps as soundless as possible, though leaves and paper waste made it a mostly futile endeavour. Only the faint dripping and humming of water pipes at least halfway drowned out their sounds. 

On the first subterranean floor Sherlock looked left and right. Open corridors, as far as he could see in the near darkness, not a sign of light or a sound to be heard. It was likely the kidnapper had retreated to the lowest level, and sure enough, as Sherlock led John to it, he could see the faint gleam of light coming through a half-open fire door. 

“ Stay behind me. Don’t let him see your gun”, Sherlock whispered to John who nodded, his whole posture tense and features strained. 

Then, Sherlock walked on, not attempting to mute his steps any longer as he strode through the corridor, following the light source that led him to a turn right and into an open storage space about twenty metres in each dimension. He could sense, could guess, that it must have taken John all his restraint not to immediately lift his gun upon the sight of his wife, handcuffed to a shelf, and a man, aiming his own gun at her temple. 

“ Ah, good evening Mr Holmes. I’m glad you could finally make it.” 

Approximately 45 years old, 5”11, 170 lbs, lean but muscular and in extraordinary shape - regular workout - military bottoms and combat boots, scarring on his right lower arm - from explosives - face and arms tanned, recently returned from the Southern hemisphere

“ Let her go!”. 

“ And you, Dr. Watson,” the man added. “Please drop your gun.” 

Mary was visibly frightened, trembling, eyes widened. She held Sherlock’s gaze for a second, though, and the vaguest of half-shrugs answered his unspoken question: is he serious or bluffing? 

Sherlock didn’t dare to turn his head to look at John, but he was certain John had been holding the gun behind his thighs, the position casual enough for most people not to immediately suspect a firearm. But not for… 

“ Listen to what the colonel says, John. I fear he may otherwise shoot Mary.” 

There was a moment’s hesitation until Sherlock could hear the half-suppressed sigh and a second later the clatter of the gun hitting the concrete floor, sliding a few feet over it and to a spot well out of reach for either of them. For now. 

“ Ah, as expected. You do know who I am then?” the colonel asked. A clear bluff; it had been impossible to miss the surprise in his eyes, if only for a split-second. 

“ No, not at all,” Sherlock replied calmly. “I just saw your beret,” he said, nodding towards the khaki cap lying on a table at the back of the room, next to a dark, non-army issue jacket. “Honourable Artillery Company, is it?” 

The man chuckled. “You really are as clever as they say.”

“ Hardly,” Sherlock replied, deliberately seeming bored. “Anyone with a vague interest in military dress and eyes could have come to that deduction. But since we haven’t come here to exchange pleasantries, please do get to the point so that we can resolve this situation and all get on with our lives.” 

The colonel laughed faintly. “Very well then, Mr Holmes. I know a man of business when I see one, and I have a very simple proposition for you: I’ll give you and Dr. Watson what you want if you give me what I need.” 

“ Being?” Sherlock asked, though he had an inkling where this was going. 

“ You tell me everything you know of that day on the roof of St. Bart’s and what happened after.” 

Sherlock had a very good idea of what the man wanted to know, and what Mycroft had been keeping from him for so long assembled into a much cleared picture now. Though he was still missing some crucial details and had to consider his reply carefully. 

“ Jim Moriarty threatened to kill my friends if I didn’t kill myself. He then shot himself in the head. I jumped, was caught by a giant airbag and staged my death with a neat little trick of a rubber ball under the armpit and fake blood so John and the sniper watching him would assume me dead. I had thought Anderson had published the video by now.” 

The colonel stared at him for a moment, and with unease Sherlock had to admit to himself that he could not read the other man’s intentions. Then, with one quick movement, the colonel aimed his gun at Mary’s feet and fired. 

Mary screamed and John started towards her and the man, but before he could have reached them, the gun was aimed at him and the colonel spoke quickly: “One more move and I’ll shoot first you and then her, for real.” 

With relief, Sherlock noticed that the bullet had only hit the plaster of the wall behind Mary, leaving her unharmed. 

John now stood a few steps in front of Sherlock, fists balled at his sides, releasing strained breaths through his nose, his whole body tense with rage and fear. 

“ Again, Mr Holmes. And this time the whole story. And I swear to you, if you are lying I  _ am  _ going to shoot her.” 

Mary looked up at him, new tears in her eyes. “Please, don’t. Sebas--” 

But he cut her off by reaching around her throat with his free hand and pressing down. Mary choked and coughed and brought her own hand up to his, and it became clear he wasn’t throttling her with full force but enough to be intimidating. 

“ Let her go. Please, don’t,” John begged now, and although Sherlock couldn’t see him it was obvious he was fighting back tears. “She’s having a baby. Don’t you see that she’s having a baby?!”

“ I said,” the colonel started calmly, “we can make a deal and all of us can walk away from here with what we wanted. If you play by my rules. So, again, Mr Holmes. What happened  _ after _ you faked your death? What happened to Jim’s body?” 

Ah, so Sherlock had been right. 

“ I don’t know. My brother took care of it,” Sherlock replied truthfully enough to keep his features even.

“ And in three years you never once asked your brother if your greatest adversary really was dead?” The colonel let out a low snort. He let go off Mary’s throat then but pressed the barrel of his gun closer to her temple, his finger straining on the trigger. “The truth, Mr Holmes. Now.”

“ Do as he says,” John pleaded as he turned back towards Sherlock. His eyes were red and his face contorted in such pain that it made Sherlock’s chest twist in an unpleasant sensation. 

“ All right. I’ll tell you the truth,” he started. Another look from John to Mary made him abandon any intention of deception. “Jim Moriarty is dead. I saw the body after the events on the roof, once. And unless my brother went out of his way to present me with a fake corpse - for which I cannot find a plausible reason - he really was dead. Mycroft had the body burned and the ashes disposed of. That is the truth and all that I know. If you’re asking about the video message I honestly cannot tell you who fabricated it and with what intention.” 

The colonel looked at Sherlock, head cocked slightly, and he seemed to be making up his mind on whether he wanted to believe him or not. Then he let out a sigh. “Well, that’s very unfortunate,” he said, and for a second he had sounded merely sarcastic, but as he lowered his gaze, something twisted across his face and his shoulders started shaking with anger. 

It was very likely the information had not bought their survival, after all. 

Sherlock looked at Mary who must have had the same thought. Eyes wide, she briefly looked over to John’s gun on the ground. Despite the very short eye contact, Sherlock could see that her free hand had joined the cuffed one behind her back.

He considered their options. 

“ I suppose… since I’ve been played I might as well just shoot all of you.” 

“ Oh God, no, please!” Mary begged. Her hand was still working on the lock of the handcuffs. “You can’t mean that.”

“ I wish it could have been different. But this one’s on you. You know how they say: never fall in love with your target, right?” 

Sherlock squinted slightly, not fully making sense of it just yet - was the colonel talking about his own absence of compassion for Mary or… Oh. 

“ For god’s sake, she’s pregnant, you… Jesus--” John let out a few heavy breaths and leaned forward, hands briefly propped above his knees to keep himself steady. “What do you want?

“ I want to know who played me and how. I want to maintain my freedom and I also really want the twelve million pounds that were promised me. Looks like the only thing I can get is the second.” He let his gaze wander from John back to Sherlock. “Unless…” 

Sherlock doubted even Mycroft would pay twelve million ransom for them - and reveal his entire scheme to a criminal, but he had no other choice than to at least make the colonel believe in the possibility. 

“ Drop your weapon, colonel,” said a female voice coming seemingly out of nowhere.

Sherlock turned around in surprise only to almost double over as he stared into a very familiar face, holding a pistol up and aimed at the colonel in a very non-familiar way. 

“ I should drop my weapon?” The colonel laughed in disbelief. “Oh let’s see. I have my gun aimed at her, and before you could pull your trigger I will have shot her.” 

“ Who says that I care?”

Another laugh. “You do. Or why else would you come in here after I’ve just found out that you have been playing me for a fool all this time?” 

“ Maybe it’s not her survival I’m interested in, though.” 

“ Oh, I see.” And the gun went from Mary’s head to aim at Sherlock. “Did I get it right?”

“ What the. Bloody hell is --” John heaved, staring back and forth between the two shooters. “Janine?”

She didn’t react, however, not more than briefly letting her gaze drift to John before she stared back at the colonel. And Sherlock… Sherlock found himself in front of hundreds of scattered puzzle pieces with nothing making sense anymore. 

“ Fine, shoot him. Then I shoot you and nobody wins. I don’t think that’s quite the outcome you’re looking for, is it?” 

The colonel was visibly frustrated with the situation, not quite knowing what to make of it and how to get out, distracted by his own confusion. Mary’s cuffs opened with a faint click that only Sherlock seemed to register. John stared at Janine in disbelief and back at the colonel. Sherlock looked towards the gun on the floor, four steps away from him. Janine aimed hers at the colonel, though Sherlock could see a faint tremor in her arm, hoping her target hadn’t noticed that, too. 

Then, everything happened very quickly. Mary used her chance and moved, slamming her elbow in the colonel’s chest. A shot was fired by Janine but hit nothing. John leapt to the side and tore the shelf to the ground right between the colonel and Mary while Sherlock hurried to get John’s gun. 

Just as John started pulling Mary towards the corridor and into safety, the colonel struggled up and another shot was fired. This time, it barely missed Janine who rushed out of the way, not missing to fire back in another futile attempt. 

And then, just as Sherlock was about to pick up the other pistol, something happened that he could not have foreseen or influenced or prevented. 

The colonel fired again. Gun aimed straight at John’s head. No more than a split-second passed between the movement of his finger on the trigger and the impact, but it was enough for Sherlock to feel his heart break, feel like he was dying himself as he’d see John killed any moment. Dead. John would be dead and there was nothing Sherlock could do. Nothing but hope the colonel would make a thorough job of it and kill them all. 

But something extraordinary happened as the bullet was expelled from the barrel, and what Sherlock had already dreadfully anticipated never came to pass. Mary had seen where the pistol had been aimed at, and she had swung around, pushed John out of the way and--

She fell to the ground with a faint cry. 

“ No! Mary!” 

John’s shouts were almost drowned out completely by the cacophony of gunshots; Janine had collected herself again and was firing at the colonel, and Sherlock - the momentary numbness and shock equally under control again - joined in. But the colonel was too fast, the chaos around him too distracting, and so, firing a few more shots in direction of Janine and Sherlock, he fled, sprinted down the corridor and up the stairs. 

Sherlock briefly considered chasing him, but as his gaze fell upon Mary on the ground and John kneeling at her side, he could not find it in him to abandon them. Quickly he rushed to them and with great relief found that Mary was still alive, that John was holding her hand and feeling for the entry wound somewhere in the area of her shoulder - with the dim light and her red coat it was still impossible to see how much blood there was. 

“ Mary, breathe. I’m here. It’s okay, you’re going to be okay,” John said gently, though his voice was shaking as his hands searched frantically. 

Suddenly, as Sherlock had just taken out his phone to call an ambulance, Mary let out a loud, drawn-out scream and pressed a hand to her belly. John’s gaze wandered down and his eyes widened. 

“ Mary, your water just broke.” 

  
  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo, um... sorry for the cliffhanger? ^^ Good news is, Erin has already beta-read chapter 9. I only have to take some time to work on a few bits. So I'll post that one a bit sooner, too (Sunday-ish). 
> 
> Also, some notes on the plot and my version of events: some of what I chose doesn't quite correspond with some of the most thought-through and logical speculations. There's tons of awesome meta floating around which I'm sure most of you have read (most of all anything by loudest-subtext-in-television on tumblr). I'm not ashamed to admit that I'm not as brilliant as this and other meta authors, so when I initially planned the plot for this fic it didn't cover everything that I now think is what might have happened. Then again, I'm not trying to pre-write season 4. ^^ I'm writing fanfic, and the choices I've made work well for what I wanted to do. 
> 
> That being said without revealing too much yet. The next chapter will explain most. 
> 
> Oh, and as you can see, it wasn't Irene back in the limousine with Mycroft. Though I had considered including her in the fic. I decided against it in the end because it would have complicated things too much and you can't always include every character. (I'm a bit sad I couldn't have Anderson in it ^^ Yet. Would anyone like some Philip? Maybe he's writing fanfic about this all. But that would be another story, and probably shouldn't be told another time).


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, since you asked so nicely for the next chapter and I don't want to be a dick, leaving you hanging on that cliff for too long, here's the next chapter. I've to admit, I'm a little nervous about it ;) More after the chapter (and of course: thanks to my beta-reader and to everyone who has commented!)

 

Usually, Sherlock was brilliant when working under pressure, but this situation was a different beast altogether. A million questions clouded his mind; he was still trying to make sense of Janine’s presence here, of what the Colonel had wanted and what Mary’s precise affiliation to him had been (and to Moriarty as well). He found that his fingers were nearly shaking when, after a second or two, he attempted to dial 999. 

They had nearly died.  _ John  _ had nearly died.

“Call an ambulance. Now!!” John was still leaning over Mary, having carefully slid down her coat and revealed an ever-growing blood stain on her light yellow knit dress. 

“No reception,” Sherlock replied. He only then noticed that Janine had stepped closer, standing next to them and looking down at Mary and John with a shocked and worried expression. “I’ll go,” she reacted. 

John nodded as his hands continued their work. “And get the first aid kit from our car,” he added, reaching into Mary’s coat pocket to find the keys. 

“Okay,” she replied breathlessly as she caught the keys and started running down the hall. Sherlock wondered whether they could even trust her. Apparently, his own deductions and predictions weren’t reliable any longer. 

“Oh God, why is it coming now? John? I didn’t think it--” Mary’s words ended in another pained moan. 

“Don’t worry. The ambulance will get here in a few minutes.” It didn’t take the fearful expression on John’s face as he briefly looked at Sherlock to know he was sugarcoating the truth. “Help me stop the bleeding.” 

Sherlock shrugged out of his coat, not minding it falling to the dirty floor, and he took off his scarf as he knelt down on Mary’s other side. Luckily, her dress was sleeveless and low cut. While John worked around him to remove the dress and rip open the t-shirt underneath, Sherlock pressed down on the wound. However, In the brief moment Sherlock had to remove the scarf fresh blood gushed out of the wound much too quickly. The bullet must have ruptured one of the main arteries in her lung. 

Even more blood poured out when Mary’s body contorted with another scream; sweat had broken on her forehead, her face pale and eyes frightened. “John, oh God, it’s coming. I… it’s really coming. I can feel it. It’s not supposed to come this quickly.” 

“ Press on the wound.  _ Don’t _ let go, whatever happens,” John quickly ordered, keeping his voice low but steady as he looked Sherlock in the eyes, panic visible in his own despite his professional calm.  _ Please don’t let her die. _

Then, his attention was on Mary only, and John’s hands examined her belly. “Mary, this is important. Did you experience any sort of pain in the last few hours?”

Mary’s breathing was ragged, her eyes wide. “I… there was a bit of tension. A dragging sort of pain, but I didn’t think--”

“Early labour. Sometimes you don’t even recognise it as such. It can happen.” 

“Is the baby okay? John?”

“Yes, love. It’s not a sign something’s wrong with the baby. It happens, and the babies end up perfectly healthy. You’ll be fine.” 

The amount of blood that Sherlock could feel warm and thick through the soaked fabric of the scarf said otherwise. 

Mary drew in a quick breath, her shoulders automatically moving up, and she bit on her lower lip, eyes pressed shut as she tried to hold back another scream. 

Sherlock looked at John, searching his face for an answer on what they should do and what the actual prospect here was, but all he could observe was that John, as soon as Mary couldn’t see him, was terrified beyond anything Sherlock had ever witnessed. John briefly closed his eyes and swallowed back a ragged breath. “Give me her coat”, he said, then started removing Mary’s shoes while Sherlock reached for the item. 

He could hear quick steps in the hallway again, and just a moment later, Janine was back, breathing hard and holding a first aid kit clutched to her chest. “They’re coming. They’ll be here soon.” 

“Good. Help me move the coat underneath her,” John said, now as calm again as he could muster - outwardly at least - as he helped lift Mary’s hips and then quickly opened the first aid-kit. “Take off her trousers. The baby is coming.” 

“Oh God. Now?” 

“Yes, now. It happens. It can… sometimes it happens quickly.” 

Another pained cry interrupted their care, and Sherlock couldn’t quite keep Mary from twisting forward, her body already following the instinct to push. They used the moment to wrap a bandage around her shoulder before John took a couple of compresses and pressed them onto the wound. 

“John… I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, love.”

“No, it’s not. There’s so much you don’t know.” 

“Yes, and you can tell me later. Now we have to focus, okay?” John said, taking the time to let a hand gently brush a few sweat-soaked strands of hair out of Mary’s face. 

“No, John!” Although weak and trembling, Mary’s voice had a new urgency, her eyes pleading with him as they searched for his gaze. “I tried. I really wanted to… John I should have--” But she couldn’t get all the words out when the next contraction made her body contort. 

“What do I do?” Janine asked. John and Sherlock had just finished applying the bandage, but blood was soaking through it quickly.

John crawled to Mary’s other end, replacing Janine and holding Mary’s knees apart. His eyes widened briefly. “Go and support her head. Kneel behind her and keep her up,” he ordered with calm tone. “Mary, I’m going to need you to push with the next contraction. Do you think you can do that?”

As Sherlock kept the pressure on the wound and held her head up so that Janine could sit behind her and support her, the panic in Mary’s gaze became more prominent, and she shook her head softly. “John, listen to me. I need to tell you.” 

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do.” Mary struggled, pain and exertion twisting her face into a grimace. “Whatever you find out about me, I… I did love you, John. I really, really did. I do. And I wanted us to be happy and have a normal life. Please, you need to believe me. You have to promise me you believe me.” 

“Mary, it’s all going to be fine. So don’t talk like you’re… It’s going to be fine!” 

“No.” The word was barely more than a whisper; tears started streaming down her face from pain but also, as was quite obvious to Sherlock, from regret and sorrow and fear. None of them had time to contemplate any of her words,though, as her breath became ragged again, announcing another contraction. 

Sherlock watched as her upper body moved forward, her legs pulled even closer, and she pushed on instinct. He knew little to nothing about the details of the child birthing process, let alone ever having witnessed it, but even he knew that she hadn’t been pushing hard enough. Her head sank back into Janine’s lap and she breathed deeply but slow. Not enough adrenaline in her system, her blood pressure much too low. 

“That was good. But next time I need you to push a little harder. You think you can do that?” John remained at her feet but reached up to grasp her hand, and Mary’s gaze frantically traveled back and forth between him and Sherlock. 

“I don’t know. John… please, you. You need to forgive me. Please. John, please.” 

“Yes, all right. I forgive you.” John’s voice was strained, half exasperated, quite obviously not wanting to realise why she needed the absolution so desperately. 

Sherlock felt a mighty sense of pity towards her. Despite everything she had done, despite all the times he had wished, had imagined, she had never stepped into John’s life - and he cursed himself for it now - he believed her. She had loved John, in every way she was capable of, had supported him through one of the roughest times in his life and pulled him back out of the hole Sherlock had pushed John in. And whatever it was that she hinted at, Sherlock would be always grateful to her for that. 

He looked at Janine, trying to remember how long it had been since she had called the ambulance. There were tears in her eyes now, too and she stroked Mary’s hair gently. Four minutes, possibly. If the ambulance got here soon there was still a good chance. She needed a transfusion - roughly one litre lost by now, not a life-threatening amount just yet. But combined with the exertion, the shock, and the internal bleeding... 

“Mary, whatever it is, I forgive you and I love you, too. But I really need you to push now. The head is already half out. The stronger you push now, the quicker she’ll be out.” And the better Mary’s chances at survival were because each new contraction, each effort weakened her and increased the blood loss.

“Okay?”

Mary nodded feebly and breathed in deep and hard. As the next contraction found its peak, Sherlock reached for her hand instinctively. He found with satisfaction that her grip was so strong that he almost feared she’d crack a bone. A good sign. “Do as the doctor says,” he smiled down at her and found it repeated in a breathless, pained chuckle before Mary finally began to push. 

“Good. You’re doing great. Just a little bit more,” John said. 

Janine held Mary almost upright now, and Mary didn’t stop, pressing her teeth together against the scream that didn’t fully come out, eyes firmly shut.

“Good. Just… yes, that’s it.” A relieved sigh from John and then, a second or two later, a thin, gurgling kind of cry slipped out. There  were tears in John’s eyes and a smile on his lips so wide that everything else was forgotten for a few, sweet moments. 

The baby was covered in amniotic fluid and a bit of blood, feet and arms a little pale but face and chest rosy as it continued wailing softly. John laid it gently on Mary’s chest and quickly took scissors and a piece of gauze to bind the umbilical cord and cut it off. 

There was almost no trace of fear and pain left on Mary’s face either; she beamed down at her newborn daughter while Janine helped gently wrap Mary’s trousers around the infant to keep her warm. The crying stopped and she just lay there, exhausted but content and blissfully unaware of the circumstances of her birth, never having known sorrow and agony as all the adults around had. 

“She’s beautiful. And healthy,” John said, now kneeling right next to his wife. 

“Yes,” Mary breathed. “Oh my god, she’s perfect.” 

Sherlock thought he faintly heard the sound of a siren coming closer. 

“Katherine,” Mary whispered. She could barely keep her arms around the baby. Something in her face shifted. “My name. It’s my name. Can we… John?”

He stared at her, the smile still on his lips but slowly fading from his eyes. “Okay. We’ll name her Katherine.” 

“Yes. Katie. My sweet girl.” There was such warmth in Mary’s gaze as she looked down at her daughter, a depth of affection that it almost shocked Sherlock to see it, and she looked up at him in that moment. Eyes fixed on him, it was as if she was struggling with something, a decision to make and unwilling to do so just yet. Then, her expression softened in surrender. “Take good care of them, okay? Of both of them.” Her gaze drifted to John a last time before Mary’s head sank back and her eyes fell shut. 

“ Mary? Oh Jesus, Mary!” John was on Sherlock’s side in an instant, checking the wound that had completely soaked through the bandages and the fabric of her t-shirt. He picked up the baby from Mary’s chest and thrust her into Sherlock’s arms. “Hold her!” The eye contact lasted for less than a second, but Sherlock - finding his heart beating rapidly and his whole body tense with worry - clearly could read in them what John was asking:  _ don’t let her fall, take care of my daughter while I save my wife.  _

Then, he pushed Janine out of the way, who stared down at Mary’s lifeless body helplessly, one hand covering her mouth. John felt for a pulse and cursed faintly as he started to reanimate Mary, breathing into her lungs twice before he started pressing down onto the middle of her ribcage in quick succession. 

Sherlock watched helplessly as he held the tiny infant in his hands. She seemed light as a feather to him, so fragile and soft that he was afraid he could crush her. Yet, he held her tight, gently clutched against his chest as she started crying again softly. He’d just need to let her slip and she’d crack her sensitive skull, and Sherlock was absolutely terrified of it happening. And more so, as he looked into her slightly reddish face (her father’s nose, mother’s lips, as far as one could tell), Sherlock felt his heart breaking at the prospect that she should grow up without her mother. Despite Mary putting her trust in him, Sherlock could never fulfil it. How could he ever take care of her if he was frightened already, now?

“Don’t you die on me now. Don’t.” John’s voice was full of despair as he continued the compression. Janine had taken over the breathing - and when exactly had that happened? Somewhere on the staircase there were footsteps, barely as loud as John’s continuing pleas as he kept pushing down on her chest. He felt for a pulse again and let out a strangled cry before he resumed. 

Sherlock was still clutching the baby to his chest, one half hoping someone who knew better how to attend to a newborn would take her from him, and the other half never meaning to let her go. He watched Janine being shoved out of the way to make room for the two paramedics and the emergency physician, but John did not intend to move. 

“Let me, I’m a bloody doctor, too. She’s my wife!” he bellowed as he continued trying to revive her. Harder and harder he pushed as the medics tried to work around him, but at last he did have to move when they activated the mobile defibrillator and tried to kick-start Mary’s heart. One of the paramedics pulled up a syringe and handed it to the doctor who administered the substance (adrenaline possibly) intravenously before continuing the defibrillation, but after the fifth unsuccessful attempt the doctor laid a hand on John’s shoulder in apology. 

“No,” John said. “She went into cardiac arrest only two minutes ago.” 

“Sir, I’m very sorry, but she’s lost too much blood. We--”

“Then let me do it!” John tried to shove the doctor out of the way and reach for the paddles, but the doctor held him by the shoulders. “Sir--”

“Don’t you bloody touch me! I’m a doctor. I served in Afghanistan and saved more critically wounded people than you’ve probably seen in your entire career. So either you let me fucking save my wife or do it yourself, or I swear to God...!” 

The paramedics had attached a portable monitor to electrodes on Mary’s chest now, and the doctor pointed at it. “She’s in asystole and has been for a couple of minutes. The adrenaline didn’t work and she’s lost more blood than we could give to her with what we have in the ambulance. I’m terribly sorry, but she’s gone.” 

John shook his head, another ‘no’ coming over his lips without a sound, and he sank back onto his heels. It was then that one of the paramedics had approached Sherlock and wanted to take the baby from him to examine it, and Sherlock was torn between not allowing it and letting him so he could go to John and - what exactly? How could he comfort him in such a situation? How could he take away any of the pain John must be feeling right now, with a physical gesture or mere words? 

“Let me have a look at the infant, please,” the medic urged gently, and finally, Sherlock let the baby be taken from his arms. He looked over to John but Janine was there first, kneeling down beside him and putting one hand on his shoulder. “I’m so sorry. God, I’m so sorry.” But John brushed her off and stumbled to his feet, one hand extended in their general direction as he removed himself from the scene on shaking legs just as Sherlock had wanted to follow. He faltered in his steps. 

The medics continued their work, putting Mary on a stretcher and wrapping the baby in a proper blanket. Another set of steps was heard on the stairs and two police officers joined the scene. Before they could come to John and ask what had happened, Janine had stepped in and talked to them out of Sherlock’s earshot. And he just stood where he had been left as his gaze drifted from John to Mary’s dead body and back. Sherlock didn’t think he’d ever felt this helpless before. As if everything he knew, all those facts archived away in that brilliant mind of his were completely useless right now. Because there was nothing, not even one detail that told him how to make any of this better. 

“We’d like to take the baby to the hospital for examinations, though she seems in good health,” the doctor said then in John’s direction. “You can ride on the ambulance with us, sir.” 

John turned and his gaze, eyes reddened, briefly found Sherlock’s before he nodded faintly at the doctor. There was nothing Sherlock could do. 

  
  


~*~

John had been sitting on the chair in the hallway for what seemed to have been ages, staring at the dreadful shade of green on the adjacent wall. He wondered who on earth had thought this to be a good colour for a hospital, a place where people were supposed to get well and not be triggered to vomit by the colour that looked not much unlike a puddle of sick. 

He didn’t even know which hospital he was at, hadn’t bothered to ask or to listen when he had sat next to Mary in the ambulance. And he also couldn’t tell how long the ride had taken. It could have been seconds or an hour, for all he knew. 

They had taken his daughter and told him to wait. They had also taken Mary, and John kept thinking, kept hoping that the shock of the situation had messed with his mind. That they’d come out onto the corridor in a moment and tell him they had been able to revive her after all. That she wasn’t dead. She couldn’t be. This was all just some weird nightmare, a trick of the mind. John knew it wasn’t, but he wasn’t yet ready to accept that fact. 

He didn’t even look up as he heard footsteps approaching him. They were too loud to be caused by a doctor’s or nurse’s usual footwear. Too familiar to be mistaken for anyone else. 

“What the bloody hell just happened there?” John was surprised to find his own voice lacking the strength and anger he had intended. Instead, it sounded croaky and weak, and he cleared his throat still without looking at Sherlock. 

“I… I’m not sure.” 

John nodded, lacking the energy to think about it himself. God, that ugly green colour was driving him crazy. 

“John, I--”

“No. Don’t.” 

John saw from the corner of his eye as Sherlock sat down in the chair next to him. He was wearing his coat again but still John couldn’t have missed the red stains on Sherlock’s hand and the cuff of his white shirt. He suddenly found it very hard to breathe. 

He got up and walked a few steps away from Sherlock until he leaned against the wall with one hand, looking down at his feet. “Fuck. Jesus Christ…” And suddenly, the numbness he had felt for the past minutes - it couldn’t have been much more - faded and made room for a boiling rage in the pit of his stomach. Somebody would have to pay for this, preferably everyone responsible.

As if he had summoned him with his thoughts, John saw Mycroft Holmes round the corner into their corridor, his face sombre but mostly neutral as he approached them, followed by Anthea and Janine. 

“Mycroft, what are you doing here?” Sherlock asked, but his brother kept his eyes fixed on John. 

“I believe I owe you the truth, John, as I am somewhat responsible for tonight’s events.”

“Oh are you? I should have bloody known.” John felt that rage in him rise and sizzle up his throat and spine, making him shake with it. 

“We should find ourselves a quiet room where we can have this conversation undisturbed. But first, let me assure you that I’m terribly sorry--”

John just snapped. All the anger - and the grief he didn’t dare deal with or acknowledge for now - exploded in him and robbed him of any control. He hurtled forward and punched Mycroft in the face with all his might, sending him flying to the ground. “I’m going to bloody kill you!” he shouted, not caring if he really did, what the consequences may be. Completely consumed by rage and hatred and seeing red. 

Just as he wanted to strike out again, bending over Mycroft, strong arms grasped him from behind and pulled him back. He struggled against the grip, tried to kick out, didn’t care whether he’d also hurt Sherlock because all he wanted was to beat someone into a bloody pulp right now. And that someone best be Mycroft. 

“Let me go!” 

“Be reasonable John. You’re a father now,” Mycroft said calmly and without resentment as he struggled back upwards, rubbing his sore chin and his split lip. Anthea gave him a tissue from her pocket. 

John didn’t feel like being calm and reasonable; he still wished he could kick and punch and scream, but it was Sherlock’s hands, firm but not forceful, and the whispered ‘John, please’ that made him consider. Made him realise that, yes, beating Mycroft Holmes to death really was a bit not good. For his daughter’s sake. 

A few people were poking their heads out, now, and one rather beefy looking male nurse came walking towards them with quick steps to see what the ruckus had been about. Anthea stepped towards him and assured him that everything was okay and that John was in shock. 

It occurred to him that he probably really was. 

“As I said, let us find somewhere more private to continue,” Mycroft said then and John nodded, finally feeling Sherlock’s grip lessen before they all followed Mycroft down the corridor and into an empty two-bed room. 

Mycroft drew one of the chairs to the foot of a bed and sat down, Anthea leaning against the bed at his side and Janine standing on his other slightly awkwardly, gaze lowered and eyes red with shed tears. 

“Maybe you should sit down, too,” Mycroft suggested but John shook his head. Sherlock stood right beside him and for a second John felt the ghost of a hand on the middle of his back, but when he turned Sherlock had taken a step to the side, both hands clasped behind him. 

“All right. Explain then. And it better be good or else…” John breathed hard through his nostrils, fighting down the urge to let his anger take control. 

Mycroft got back up from the chair - probably not bearing to be at lower height than John - but he remained in a safe distance, his umbrella propped on the floor. John wondered for a moment why Mycroft hadn’t even struck out to defend himself with it. 

He look a slow, deep breath. “There are more details to this story than we should be able to cover tonight as this is neither the time nor the place for it. However, John, let me assure you, and it is paramount that you understand this, that what I did was in your best interest.”

John let out a disbelieving laugh. “Oh right. I’m touched. Do you honestly think I believe that you care about me so much? You’re an idiot then.” 

Mycroft looked at him calmly. “Sherlock cares about you and I about him. The chain of pressure points, as you may remember.” 

“So since you care so much about your brother and by extension me you went and let my wife be killed?!” John couldn’t help his rage resurfacing; he still wanted to just leap forward and beat that smug, self-absorbed look from Mycroft’s face. 

“I didn’t ‘let your wife be killed.’ While I admit that I personally couldn’t have cared less about her, it was never part of my plan to endanger Mary’s life. Or should I say Katherine’s?” 

John let out another laugh, feeling something burn in his nose and eyes. “Right. So you already know bloody everything then? And it didn’t once occur to you to tell me.” 

“As I said, what I did I did in your and Sherlock’s best interest. If we could skip the pointless resentments now you might understand it all a little better.”

“Okay then. Talk.” 

Mycroft nodded and now sat back down nevertheless. “I should probably start with the man you’ve had the pleasure to meet tonight. He is known to us as the Colonel, former right hand of James Moriarty, his second in command. We’ve been tracking him for the past three years, but he always seemed to be one step ahead of us.” 

“Hang on,” Sherlock now started. “You didn’t find this relevant to mention while I was dismantling Moriarty’s network? Instead you left me in the belief I had been successful?” 

“Oh but you have been, Sherlock. Even if you had known about the Colonel, there would have been nothing you could do because what we needed was to draw him out. And that is precisely what we did.  You should know by now, and you, too, John, Rome wasn’t built in a day. If we had taken but one too careless and hasty step we could have risked the entire mission. And since the Colonel is the most dangerous of Moriarty’s associates - or one of the two - you, brother dear, would have done something rash to stop the possible threat and potentially get yourself killed in the process.”

“What do you mean: one of the two?” John asked. 

Again, Mycroft just looked at John for a while and his expression became almost somewhat regretful and relenting. “You should consider sitting down.” 

John searched Sherlock’s gaze, wondering whether he knew what Mycroft was hinting at. The sorrowful look in Sherlock’s grey-blue eyes confirmed it; he nodded and drew the second chair to the spot where John had been standing. He began to feel a horrible sense of foreboding. 

Mycroft nodded towards Anthea, who took a file out of her case and handed it to her boss. “I have here everything on the Colonel that I know, and everything on the other person I have mentioned who used to be Moriarty’s third in command for a couple of years. A Katherine Wallace, known to you under the name of Mary Morstan.” 

The greatest part of John didn’t want to believe what he was hearing. Despite everything he knew of her past - though it wasn’t much - he had accepted it as a dark stain that would never fully go away but needn’t have an impact on the present and the future. If she had been working for Moriarty, however, this fact could change everything, and he was not prepared to let that happen. Not when she had only -- He really was grateful he was sitting down. 

“I will give this file to you and Sherlock for your eyes only. I trust that you will read it if you choose and then destroy it or keep it well hidden. In this file you will find everything about her background that we could collect over the years. From her father who died when she was ten while serving for the CIA to early psychological surveys that diagnosed her as a sociopath - not the kind Sherlock likes to make everyone believe he is. You will read that she did work for the CIA in a black ops division for a few years until she decided to turn her back on her homeland and work as an assassin before she joined Moriarty’s web. In fact, it was hardly a web back then, and she helped build it as much as did the Colonel. 

“What you will also find - and don’t think that it brings me enjoyment to tell you this, John - is that we have good reason to believe she was one of the snipers at the pool when you first encountered Moriarty. She stayed in his employ for quite a while after that, too. The five years you have deduced, Sherlock, after she shot you, were incorrect. Katherine was still working for Moriarty even after you faked your death and he killed himself. Though she had been undercover for a while, and abandoned her assignment sometime after, when precisely is still unclear. We believe she fell in love with the man she was supposed to keep an eye on. And since Moriarty was gone and the Colonel occupied elsewhere, she used the chance to fully become Mary Morstan, and then applied as nurse in your surgery.” 

Mycroft remained silent again, giving John the chance for the information to settle, but it was way too much to process for one moment. He hardly could. Looking over to Sherlock he found him seemingly unsurprised, and John couldn’t prevent the anger from rising again. 

“You knew?!” 

Sherlock’s eyes widened, but it was Mycroft who talked over his brother’s faint utterance of John’s name. “No, he didn’t. I knew Sherlock would not want to keep something of such importance from you, not after how you took his faking his death without your inclusion.” 

“How I took--” John breathed hard. There was no point in diving into this topic now, too. “So you kept everything from both of us then. Great. Bloody great. God forbid you’d have told us the truth!” 

“And then what?” Mycroft asked calmly. “You would have left Mary while she was carrying your child? Even watched her go to prison? Timing was crucial, John. All the facts could only be revealed together, and it was a courtesy to you and your unborn daughter that I waited for that to happen at an opportune moment.” 

John could only let out a bitter, sarcastic chuckle and shake his head, not sure what to say or even think. 

Again, it was silent in the room for a few moments, and it was Janine who spoke first this time. John only remembered then that she was even here and that he still had no idea how she fit into the whole picture. “So this was about Mary then? Not about the Colonel?” There was anger undeniably noticeable in her tone. 

“It was about both of them,” Mycroft replied. “But I thought it best to keep that part from you.” 

“Because you thought you couldn’t use me for your scheme if I knew? Mary was my friend, after all.” 

“Who only befriended you so she could get access to Magnussen. I thought it complicated things and increased the chance of failure if I told you everything. After all, it was of greatest importance that you fulfil your role with the Colonel.”

“And what role was that?” John asked, feeling his head spin and hurt with all the new information, but wanting to make sense of it nevertheless. 

“I’m Jim’s sister,” Janine blurted out. John turned his head and saw Sherlock look at Janine in surprise, one eyebrow quirked upward. 

She shrugged, gaze lowered. “Half-sister. We didn’t grow up together. Mam and I took her maiden name again after Jim and his father left us. I’d known there was something rotten about him ever since we were children. But he… he was fond of me, still. He tried to keep in touch, wanted to get me on his side. But I never caved.” 

“And since the Colonel knew of Moriarty’s fondness for his sister, I thought her the best candidate to lure the Colonel into our trap,” Mycroft concluded. 

Sherlock finally spoke: “So… you posed as your brother’s new right hand. You and my brother faked the video message to lure him back to London and you… You would have needed to give him information to keep him close and… Ohh, yes. It all makes sense now. How clever and cunning of you, Mycroft. If you just hadn’t made one crucial mistake.” 

John looked at Sherlock and back at Mycroft, not understanding a single word any longer. “From the beginning please? I’m not following.” 

“My brother is correct. Janine pretended to carry out her brother’s orders while he was still in hiding. As you can imagine, John, this had been my plan for quite some time. Ever since Moriarty had died - and this should rule out your last remaining doubt that he did - I knew there must have been a second in command, but not who he was. The few pieces of information we accumulated over the years are but fragments. We know he has a military background but not his full name, only the initials S.M., though they could refer to a title or code name as well.”

“Sebastian. His first name,” Sherlock said, and John remembered how Mary had called him that before he had started to choke her. 

Mycroft’s brows rose slightly. “So his real name after all. Good. Unfortunately of no use to us at present. Where were we?” 

“Wait,” John interrupted. “If you knew that he existed why the hell did you never do anything to apprehend him.”

“Oh but we didn’t have anything on him and his activities. No grounds for a conviction, sadly.”

“You could have just have him killed. Wouldn’t be the first one. Why the bloody hell didn’t you and instead let him walk free so that he could kill my wife?” Anger rose in John again, though he noticed he was much too exhausted to let it even fully surface. A part of him just wanted to lie down, curl into a ball and sleep - hopefully to really wake up from this nightmare. But most of him sadly knew he wasn’t dreaming. 

“And risk all his adjutants and whoever else was under his command walk free? You don’t think that a man who has learned from the most brilliant criminal mastermind of this and the last century would not have some kind of insurance to at least kill every single one of his enemies, should he come to harm? No, killing him would have been a lazy, unsafe option. 

“I had to devise a different plan, one that would leave him in the hands of the authorities with enough evidence for a life-long sentence but without risking the lives of anyone involved. As Sherlock already hinted at, I needed to improvise, however, when he shot Magnussen and was about to be sent on a mission from which he would never have returned alive.” 

John’s head turned around and he stared at Sherlock in shock. That the prospect had been this grim when they had said goodbye on the airfield had never occurred to him, and even though it had never come to pass he almost felt like breaking down at the mere thought of having lost Sherlock again. 

“Immediate action was required, so I recruited Miss Burke here to play the handler and give the Colonel information that would prepare him for an upcoming mission.” 

“What kind of mission?” Sherlock asked. 

“He got information on the venue of a very important and secret conference of, shall I say my international counterparts. It takes place in twenty-six days. Unfortunately - and yes, this is where I did make a mistake, though it wasn’t mine alone--” He briefly looked up at Janine who stepped from one foot to the other uncomfortably. “The Colonel suspected that he was being played and contacted his former partner, who, as I suspect, had been curious about Moriarty’s potential return ever since the video had been broadcast. We did monitor all her correspondence, but we didn’t account for a secondary mobile phone which she must have activated only occasionally.”

“You… what?”

Mycroft crooked his head at John’s question, for the first time this evening slightly affronted. “John, even you must understand that I would not leave a woman who almost killed my brother without surveillance.”

“But… she didn’t. She never meant to kill Sherlock. It was just to--” 

Mycroft interrupted him with condescending laughter. “Oh John, it’s so easy to believe what we want to believe, isn’t it? Though I think my brother has fallen victim to his own deception.”

John didn’t want to hear any of it; it had been difficult enough to accept the events (and Sherlock’s explanation) once, to forgive Mary. Being told he should start viewing it from a completely different angle was too much to bear. 

“Well, to be fair, Mycroft, if she had intended to kill me she would have aimed for the head.”

“True, but you’re overlooking the part where the shot nearly did kill you. I believe the only reason why she didn’t aim for the head or precisely the heart was that she left herself the option to believe she didn’t mean to kill you whilst fully risking that she do so. If you read the psychological survey you will find this corresponds with some of her most striking personality traits.” 

“All right, enough of that now. She… she’s dead for Christ’s sake!” John lifted a hand to his eyes, feeling nauseated by everything he was hearing.

“As I said,” Mycroft resumed, “there is hardly enough time to give you the entire version of the events. You have your daughter to care for now and I understand that the night has been devastating enough for you. And I have a board to inform of the unfortunate turn of events and devise a secondary plan to apprehend the Colonel. Which should prove difficult since he now knows he’s been walking into a trap.” 

Everyone was silent after that; John saw Sherlock shift beside him, probably having a hundred questions to ask his brother but refraining from doing so. And John realised with a sense of shock that he had, in fact, completely forgotten to even inform any of the doctors where they could find him. 

His daughter. Katherine. He felt the sudden, overwhelming urge to see her and make sure she was all right. If anything were to happen to her as well he would -- His eyes shot open and he looked up at Mycroft. 

“Where is she? Is she safe? What if the Colonel is out for revenge now?” 

“Calm down, John. I am taking every precaution for precisely that reason. There are two armed guards on the floor where your daughter is being examined, and they will remain there for as long as she stays in hospital. I have further instructed for the same safety measures to be taken in Baker Street. There will not be a single opportunity for the Colonel to put you or the baby in any harm.” 

“Right. Good.”

Mycroft got up from the chair and made his way towards the door, stopping at Sherlock’s side. “I really am sorry for how the events have unfolded. But you should know, both of you, that Mary brought all of this on to herself.”

It was probably the least sensitive thing he could have said in that moment, and John felt any kind of minuscule gratitude that had surfaced among the grief and anger disappear again. 

“Read the file.” And with that Mycroft left the room, followed by Anthea and, with a moment’s hesitation, Janine. 

It took John a good ten or more seconds until he could finally muster the strength to get up. 

  
  
  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the great reveal. As you can see, here's the one big thing that I did differently than most meta writers are convinced of: Moriarty really is dead. (Also, I'm having a massive déjà-vu about having said this, but I couldn't find it in the notes of the previous chapters). I now also think that, despite most of us having believed it for two years, Moriarty actually having shot himself is kind of... pointless. I have no idea whatsoever what he was doing in all this time, what he would do now (and how the heck Mofftiss are going to solve this - I can't wait!). So I decided against it and did what I knew I could pull off. Or at least I hope I can ^^ 
> 
> Anyhow, the next chapter should be up Thursday-ish. I still have to reread it and send it to by beta-reader. 
> 
> Oh and... I was wondering weather I should have tagged character death, but it would have been such a massive spoiler, and I was also thinking you guys might see this coming. Did you?


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for all the lovely comments! And sorry for updating a little later than promised. I've been quite busy the past two days and couldn't find the time to work on my beta-reader's comments.  
> I hope you enjoy this chapter... and stick with the fic until the next one, too, because. Well, the next one you might *really* like ;) I hope.

Sherlock opened the door to the flat and let John step through. He had been silent on their entire ride home; an armoured limousine Mycroft had provided had taken them back to Baker Street after John had signed some paperwork and checked on his daughter one last time. She would remain in hospital for a couple of days for observation, and Sherlock was grateful for that fact. John needed rest; it was obvious from his entire body language: shoulders slumped and steps heavy, and his face was pale, eyes slightly reddened and with dark shadows underneath. 

He still wasn’t speaking and Sherlock had no idea what to do. 

“Do you, um… want anything? Tea, water?” he asked as he put Mycroft’s file on the desk. 

John shook his head, barely even glancing at Sherlock. He looked, in every way, broken, and Sherlock felt a heavy ache in his chest with sympathy and sadness for his best friend. 

“Then, um…” He didn’t even know what he wanted to ask when John interrupted him, voice rough and weak. 

“I just need to sleep.”

Sherlock nodded, feeling the ache inside grow stronger as John turned towards the living room door. If only he could do something to help John. He wanted to hold him, hug him tight and absorb some of the pain John was feeling, but aside from the fact that it was physically impossible to transfer emotion like that, Sherlock didn’t know if he should, if that might make things even worse. And most of all, he wasn’t quite sure whether he was being selfish in this desire or not. 

“Your bed’s not made,” Sherlock suddenly remembered. “Mrs Hudson washed your bedding and put it away.” 

John looked back at Sherlock, not directly but just in his general direction, and Sherlock wondered whether he just couldn’t bear looking at anyone at present or was angry at Sherlock in particular. After all, Sherlock had kept some of his knowledge from John, even if it was very little and nothing conclusive enough to act on, thanks to Mycroft. 

Then, he noticed that John’s gaze was fixed on the chair, the one Mary had been sitting in the last time she had set foot in Baker Street. His relief didn’t last for more than a second, though, immediately replaced by regret and that constant pain in his chest that must be but a mere echo of what John was experiencing. 

“You can sleep in my bed. I’ll just… I’m going to read the file,” he said. “Unless you don’t want me to.” 

“No, it’s… it’s fine,” John replied, weary and even apathetic. He remained in the spot he was standing for a few more moments as if he found it physically difficult to draw his gaze from the chair. Then, he closed his eyes for a second and finally turned, heading for the bathroom first. 

Sherlock let out a low sigh and walked up and down the room in a few, long paces. 

He wanted to read the file, wanted to know everything he had missed, but for some reason, as his gaze fell upon it on the desk, he couldn’t bring himself to pick it up. Didn’t think he could concentrate. 

The toilet flushed and the faint humming of the sink could be heard a moment later. John’s toothbrush was still in the cabinet but none of his other toiletries. Enough for one night, though. 

Sherlock wondered what would happen next, and same as earlier, he felt a stab of guilt when he automatically imagined John moving back in, knowing this thought was awfully self-serving. Then again, it was practical, and likely, too. John had moved out of Baker Street when he had been mourning his friend, surely he wouldn’t be able to bear living in the home he had inhabited with someone he had loved. But maybe he would only stay here until he found something of his own, something appropriate for him and the baby. 

Sherlock sat down and suppressed another sigh. The memory of last evening - mere hours ago - automatically surfaced; Sherlock could almost feel their tight embrace and the heated kisses they had shared, and with it confusion and wonder rose in him. He had never expected John to return his feelings even in the slightest, but yesterday had been a clear sign that he could, had wanted to. The only reason why John couldn’t was now lying in the morgue, a dead body the only remnant of a complicated life full of lies and deception but also kindness and affection.

Sherlock could imagine what some of the psychological surveys may say. He had seen hints of it. Nothing as extreme as dissociative identity disorder (though some aspects of various disorders that might have led the one or other psychologist to such an incomplete and imprecise diagnosis) but clear signs that there were two sides to Mary’s personality. Two sides she could separate very distinctly, even so far as completely suppressing the one currently not needed. So when Mary had been kind and affectionate it was because she believed herself to be a kind and affectionate person, and as long as the other side had no reason to surface she had been what she had made everyone and herself believe. After all, a villain was only a hero in his or her own story. 

For John’s sake, Sherlock had, for a long time, fallen under that illusion as well. Had ignored the hints, had even forgiven her for acting so cruelly and unscrupulously in despair, for not seeing another way out. He had rationalised it, same as she had probably done to herself. 

What he had learned of her this night, however, had been an eye-opener, had presented him with all the clues he had previously missed. And yet, he still could not feel relief over the fact that she was gone, that this source of danger (who knew what else she could have brought upon herself and her family, still) was gone from John’s life. Or at least he shouldn’t.

He heard the bathroom door open and close again, slow steps in the hall and a moment later the rustling of sheets. Sherlock could almost not bear to remain seated. For a minuscule moment, he couldn’t prevent himself from hoping, his mind from creating images of their future together, based on the prospect John had revealed earlier that evening. If at all, Mary’s death had made such an outcome even more impossible. If time had told that John and Mary were not perfectly suited for each other after all, if their relationship had had time to dissolve on its own, then maybe a new one would have naturally blossomed from it. But now, with an ultimate act of self-sacrifice and words of regret the last living memories of her existence, how could John ever fall out of love with her? How could he discard a period of his life and easily move on when - soon after the first shock and numbness he was experiencing now had gone - he’d be ridden with guilt and regret of his own? 

So, in the end, Sherlock had no reason to imagine a somewhat positive outcome for himself, a gleam of hope amidst the tragedy. He had no right to. All he could do was offer and provide whatever it was John needed from him. As a friend. 

Sherlock noticed that both his body and mind had grown awfully tired, too, and within only a few seconds after he had concluded his train of thought he felt such a fatigue that he could hardly keep his eyes open. He was tempted to just close them and sleep where he was sitting. Still in the shirt that had Mary’s blood on its cuff. 

He let out a faint sigh and forced himself to get up. Slipping out of his shoes, he walked towards the bedroom with careful, quiet steps to fetch his pyjama and dressing gown. He could vaguely see John’s silhouette on the bed in the dim light only coming in through the half-opened door from the kitchen, and he recognised that John had laid down on the right half, back turned towards the door. 

Sherlock was almost back out of the room, having found the items even in the dark when John faintly spoke up. “If you want to sleep you can. I mean… here.”

He didn’t know whether he just imagined it (wishful thinking) but it almost seemed to him as if John was not only giving him that option but asking him to stay in the only way he could. 

“Are you sure? The couch is fine.”

John didn’t respond for a second or two and Sherlock could hear him exhale slowly. “Yes. It’s your bed after all.”

Maybe not wishful thinking then. 

After he had had a quick wash and changed into his nightwear, Sherlock carefully got into the bed next to John, and despite every portion of his conscious mind knowing this was not the opportunity for such sentiments, he could not quite prevent his heart from beating faster. Though it was hardly a pleasant feeling - underlined with sadness, a longing that couldn’t be fulfilled and helplessness in face of a tragedy he had not been able to prevent.

He didn’t know whether John was asleep or not, and Sherlock could already feel his mind drifting off after several minutes before he heard John’s voice again. 

“Did you know it was just a ruse?”

“Hm?” Sherlock couldn’t tell what precisely John meant.

“A.G.R.A. It wasn’t her initials after all,” John replied, his voice sounding slightly hoarse, tone more monotonous than anything. “Did you know?”

Sherlock paused for a long while before replying. He knew that every revelation of a fact he had been keeping from John might push them further apart. However, even though he had kept details from him in the past, he would not lie to John. “I… I was quite certain, yes.” 

Again, there was silence for a long while, and Sherlock’s only hope was that John had fallen asleep after all so that the second likeliest option - John getting angry at Sherlock and kicking him out - wouldn’t come to pass. 

“How could I not see it?” John asked. 

Sherlock had no idea how to answer the question without angering John, something he wanted to prevent at all costs. “I… don’t know.”

“Yes you do,” John replied, and for the first time there was a vague spark of emotion in his tone. Not anger precisely; Sherlock couldn’t quite pinpoint it.

“You left me to figure it out myself. But I didn’t. Why don’t I ever see what’s bloody in front of me?” 

“Because… you loved her,” Sherlock replied faintly. 

“I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore.” 

Sherlock had no reply to that, and only when nothing else had come from John for several minutes and his breath had become even and quiet, did Sherlock know that John had finally fallen asleep. 

The same mercy didn’t come to Sherlock for a long time.  

  
~*~

 

A thin, soft cry came over the baby’s lips as she turned her face away from the bottle and gave a faint cough. John put the formula on the side table and gently wiped the residue of it from his daughter’s tiny mouth. 

“Had enough, did you?” He carefully lifted her up and held her against his chest, one hand placed against her head to keep her steady, feeling the soft, silky baby fuzz under his fingertips. She didn’t cry anymore and only swallowed faintly as she pulled her legs up, curled into a ball that made her seem even tinier than she was. 

Forty-eight centimetres, six pounds and eight ounces. She was slightly smaller than an average baby but well and fully developed despite having been born a bit sooner than calculated. Whether she would have been born so soon either way or the early labour having been caused by stress (or even the quarrel they’d had) John didn’t want to think about. She was healthy, all her vital parameters within the norm. Only her temperature had been a bit low after the first night, and the doctors recommended keeping her in hospital for observation a few days longer. 

John leaned back in the chair that stood in a small, separate room of the nursery for the purpose of parents spending time with their babies if they weren’t stationed in hospital themselves. Earlier that day, there had been a woman with a prematurely born baby who had tried to make small talk with John. He was glad she was gone now. 

A part of him was also glad that Katie - somehow he could not call such a tiny human being by such a grown-up name as Katherine, even in his head - would stay here at least until the weekend. He did want to have her with him at all times, even missed her terribly already when he left the hospital or just went down to the cafeteria to get something to eat, but he had so much to take care of and worry about. A funeral to plan. 

It still felt utterly surreal that Mary was gone. That the tiny being currently drooling onto his shoulder knew nothing of the circumstances of her birth and that she would grow up without a mother. What would John tell her, then, when she was old enough to ask?  _ I’m sorry love, but your mum was an assassin and mixed with the wrong people and got herself killed the night you were born. Oh, and she did that saving my life because she caught the bullet that was meant for me.  _

John took a deep breath, fighting down the bitter chuckle that wanted to escape him. How could he ever explain this to his child? And how was he supposed to do all this alone? 

He had thought of these questions several times already, and whenever his mind reached this point, he wondered what his - their - future would look like. And whether he had to raise her all by himself at all. There was still Sherlock... However, once his mind just briefly reached the point where he wondered about this, he immediately stopped himself. He could hardly bear thinking this through, didn’t dare imagine and plan while his wife had been dead for not even forty-eight hours. No matter how he looked at it, from which angle and with which outcome, it was all terribly messed up. 

Katie whimpered softly and made a throaty sound, and John adjusted the towel on his shoulder a bit as he gently started patting her back. “Yeah, just let it out if you have to, love. There, better now?” He took a corner of the towel and wiped the small amount of spit-up from her mouth. He then turned the towel around a little awkwardly, trying to position it so it wouldn’t soak through to his clothing. He should probably bring a spare cardigan or jumper next time. 

Katie let out a few soft grunting sounds but luckily no hiccups followed and she relaxed again against his chest. John kissed her head and breathed in that lovely smell that only a newborn baby had. “I already love you to bits, you know that? And… You know, your daddy isn’t so good with talking about feelings and all that, but you can’t understand me yet anyway so -- Your mum loved you very much, too.” 

The baby turned her head towards his voice and opened her deep blue eyes, unable to properly recognise anything or anyone yet, and John had to swallow hard to fight back the tears. His heart was breaking for her, more strongly than his own loss could ever feel. 

A movement in front of the half-drawn curtain covering the glass door caught his eye, and to his great surprise, John recognised his sister reluctantly poking her head in. 

“John, there you are,” she said, and it took him a moment to read her face, see the concern clearly written on it and know she must have heard. Somehow. He should have called her. 

“Come on in,” he said faintly and looked back at his daughter, unwilling to see the pity on Harry’s face for longer than was necessary. 

She was quiet for a few moments as she approached him with careful steps. “Gosh. I’m… I’m so sorry.” 

John took a deep breath and allowed himself to look up at her, forcing a small smile onto his lips. She looked good. Her hair was shorter than last time he’d seen her, also a few shades blonder, layered around her square face and giving her a youthful look. Her clothes, as casual as always, looked good on her. She had gained some weight and her skin was rosy. Maybe this time she had finally made it and would stay sober. 

“Yeah,” he finally said, not knowing what else to respond. “How did you hear?” 

“I went by the surgery. I… wanted to bring you a gift for the baby. Your nurse told me that… well.” Not wanting to articulate the unpleasant was something they had always had in common. “She just couldn’t say how.”

John nodded, sensing that she was curious (and concerned), but not knowing whether he could speak about it just yet. Instead, he focused on his daughter and shifted her gently in his arms to put her on her back, though with the head and upper body still slightly elevated so she wouldn’t get any hiccups. “Say hi to your aunt.” 

Harry’s expression didn’t change for a moment, and there even was moisture glistening in her grey-green eyes (their father’s), but then, as she looked at the tiny baby in John’s arms, her face immediately lit up and she bit her lower lip as she let out a delighted sigh. “What’s her name?” 

“Katherine. Katie,” John replied. “Do you want to hold her?” 

Harry’s eyes widened and she looked back at John. “I… I don’t know. Gosh, she’s so small. What if I drop her?” 

John couldn’t help the small chuckle leaving him. “Pull up that chair there and you won’t drop her. You just have to support her head. And better take one of those towels. She’s just got her bottle and could throw up on you.” 

Harry let out a faint laugh. “Well… All right.” Doing as John had said, she pulled the second chair next to his and sat down, carefully taking the baby from him. “My God”, she said, smiling widely, and the tears now became more visible in her eyes. “Hey there, Katie. I’m your aunt Harry. Am I holding her right?”

“Yes, it’s fine,” John said, drinking in the image and the pride her reaction automatically caused. Until Harry spoke up again. 

“But… what happened?” 

“Well…” John swallowed and took a deep breath. “It’s a long story, and I don’t think I can -- She. It was someone from Moriarty’s web. Someone she had worked with. He took her hostage to get to me and Sherlock, things got ugly and she…” He couldn’t go on, having to close his eyes for a moment to regain his composure. “He shot her in the shoulder. She went into labour. The ambulance didn’t get there quickly enough.” 

“My God.” 

“Yes.” 

“John, I’m so sorry,” Harry said gently and, while still firmly holding Katie with one arm, reached out with the other to lay it around John’s shoulders and hug him, but he drew away from her. 

“Sorry. I can’t.” He just said, knowing that if she hugged him he’d start to cry for real. He told himself that the main reason for not wanting this to happen was his daughter and that the change in atmosphere might cause her distress as well. 

“Okay,” Harry said and looked back at her niece. She took one of Katie’s tiny hands in hers, watching in delight as it wrapped around her index finger. “She’s gorgeous, John. A bit small, though, is she? Almost three weeks early?”

“On the smaller side, yes. But well within the normal range. She’s perfectly healthy.”

“That’s good. That’s the most important thing now.” Harry said with a smile that now seemed to light up a bit more when she directed her gaze back at the baby. 

John was grateful that she accepted his explanation without questions, and he was even more so that she had not commented on Mary’s involvement with Moriarty. John knew that Harry hadn’t been awfully fond of Mary - he wondered whether there was something she had sensed but quickly pushed away that thought. Despite their difficult relationship, he was glad she was here now.

“And you’ll do fine. I’m sure it all feels really big and… well, overwhelming right now, but you’ll manage,” Harry added, her sisterly instincts obviously having sensed his concerns. 

“I don’t know,” he admitted and let out a faint sigh. “I mean I know it’s different than with us.” Even though having one absent parent in common, at least Katie’s wouldn’t show up every now and then, drunk and abusive, only to disappear again for the next couple of years and leave the other parent devastated and overburdened with two children and little means to provide for them. “But--”

“ No but. It  _ is _ different. Period. You’re not like mum. You’ll do this and you’ll be bloody amazing at it. And if anybody tells you otherwise then fuck them.”

John couldn’t help letting out a small laugh. “Jesus. I’m glad Katie can’t understand a thing yet.”

“Oh gosh, sorry,” Harry replied. “I’ll have to watch my mouth once she starts understanding things, won’t I?” She chuckled. “But I mean it, John. Don’t compare yourself to our parents. I already got the worst of both of them, so you’re off safe.” 

John looked at her for a long moment, and suddenly he felt very guilty for all the times he had hated Harry for being so out of control, so outwardly egotistic and unwilling to get her life back together. Of course he knew that all of these things were a result of a childhood that had been anything but ideal for them, but it only fully hit him, now, that Harry didn’t  _ enjoy _ being like that. 

He followed an impulse when he leaned over and hugged her with one arm. “I’m sorry.” 

Harry was visibly surprised, but she laughed it off. “What? For getting the better genes? A bit like ‘Twins’, eh? Just that you’re the short one.” 

John had to laugh at that. “No, I’ve been horrible to you sometimes.”

Harry shrugged. “Well, yeah. For example when you snogged my wife.” The smirk around her lips revealed that there were no hard feelings about that anymore. “But since that helped her over her ‘maybe I’m not gay after all’ phase and we’re back together now it’s all fine.” 

“You are?” John asked in surprise. 

“Yes, for a few weeks now. It’s-- oh, I probably shouldn’t. What with you…” Harry gave him a guilty look. 

“No, that’s good. I’m glad to hear it,” John said, meaning it. 

Harry smiled at him before she let her gaze travel back to Katie who was now whimpering softly, though not necessarily in discomfort. It was more of a faint mumbling that John already recognised as her standard sounds when she was getting sleepy. 

“I should put her down for her nap,” John said and took the baby from Harry’s arms again, softly rocking her against his chest. “And then I’ve got to head out to the… undertaker.” 

“Do you want me to come with you?” Harry offered, her tone immediately changing to sympathetic and concerned again. 

“ No, it’s fine. I’ll… actually I think I want to do this alone. Sherlock already offered to come with me, but… Well.” It was probably his last chance to spend some time alone with Mary. Even though she was no more than a dead body, only the shell of the person he had loved.  _ A shell of a shell really _ ,  he couldn’t prevent thinking.

“Okay. But… if you need anything else. Really, John. I’m in a good place now, and if there’s something I can do to be there for you for once then just ask. No time for false modesty, all right?” 

As they both got up from their chairs, John nodded at his sister in gratitude. “All right. Thanks.”

Harry gave him another smile before she leaned in and kissed first his cheek and then Katie’s head. “You’ll get through this, you will.” 

Even though there were many reasons and aspects that made him wonder how exactly, he was surprised to find that he knew he would get through it all, somehow. He hadn’t been so sure about that three years ago under similar circumstances. Then again, he’d been all alone, then. Now, he had a daughter to take care of as first priority, and a rekindled relationship with his sister. And he had Sherlock. At least for now. Until John figured out the rest.

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Argh, I'm starting to sound like a broken record, but... thank you all so much for the lovely comments. They really mean a lot to me as I was a bit insecure about my fic at the beginning (hey, there are so many extremely brilliant authors in this fandom, it's impossible to measure up to them ^^).   
> I enjoyed writing this chapter very much and I'm hoping you'll enjoy reading it, too.   
> Also (not really relevant but...) my BFF just had her baby on Sunday. I actually *saw* a tiny little newborn baby just one day after birth, and I actually started crying. I've only ever seen older babies, so this was really amazing. Anyway... shutting up now (but man the baby was cute. I hope I can visit them again soon. I'm also not panicking because she now won't have a lot of time for me anymore. No napkin folding here... yet ^^).

 

“Does anybody want some brandy?” Mrs Hudson’s voice seemed shriller than usual in the room full of quiet people. A tray with glasses and a bottle of expensive-looking brandy was in her hands as she reentered the living room from the kitchen. There was food, too, most of which she had prepared the previous evening and this morning before the funeral, though Sherlock already knew that neither he nor John had any appetite for it. 

“Thanks, I’ll have one,” Lestrade replied, keeping his tone low as had everyone else. A funeral and the following gathering seemed to elicit that behaviour in people. 

“You too, Molly, dear?” Mrs Hudson asked and received a reluctant nod. “And… oh… I have fresh lemonade in the kitchen. I’ll bring you a glass,” she said to Harry, looking mildly guilty. “I can bring out the canapés if anyone would like some?”

“I’ll come with you,” Molly offered, and Sherlock couldn’t miss the very brief look from both her and his landlady that said so much as ‘you could help, too’. He probably should have, but Sherlock couldn’t bear letting John out of his sight. 

While Lestrade, Molly and Harry had taken their seats on the sofa - the two armchairs and a dining chair pulled closer - John remained standing by the window, his gaze drifting outside every now and then and never focusing on anyone in particular for more than a second or two. He had been very quiet the entire day, only accepting the condolences of the funeral-goers with minimal verbal responses and polite handshakes. And he hadn’t spoken a single word ever since they got to Baker Street. 

Over the past four days, John had seemed like he was coping well under the circumstances; he had visited his daughter, who was still in hospital until Monday, daily, had taken all the necessary steps to organise the funeral, had eaten (less than usual but enough and regularly), had spoken to Sherlock about all kinds of mundane topics and even shown signs of amusement given the opportunity. It hadn’t been difficult, not even for Sherlock, to see through it all and know that grief and regret were buried underneath that stoic behaviour. The question was just when it was going to erupt, and the longer it took, the stronger and more extreme it would hit him. 

Sherlock’s gaze crossed Harry’s for a moment, and he was certain he read a similar line of thought on her features. 

“So,” Lestrade cleared his throat. “Um… what do you do, Harriet?” 

“Oh God, don’t call me that. It makes me think I’m in trouble,” she replied with a chuckle. “It’s Harry. And I’m in accounting. For a real estate developer.” 

“Ah. Interesting.” 

No it wasn’t. Harry had been bored with her job for some time now, easy to tell by the slightly stiff middle finger of her right hand - overstrain of the joint from too much scrolling on various websites while she should be working on a job that wasn’t demanding enough for her; despite her alcoholism she was a very swift and thorough worker. 

“Well. It’s all right.” 

“Here we go,” Mrs Hudson announced as she carried a larger tray to the coffee table, followed by Molly who held plates and napkins in her hands. “I’ve got egg salad, paté, camembert and some Italian sausage. From the basket Angelo gave you,” she ended, looking at Sherlock. 

“Salsiccia.”

“Yes, that’s the one. How sweet of him to give you all those fancy foods.” 

Sherlock stopped himself from remarking that the panettone was a Christmas leftover and the olive oil not as fancy as its tiny bottle indicated. 

“Oh, and I got something from Mrs Turner for the little one downstairs. She gave it to me yesterday evening. Hand-made but you'd better see for yourself.” 

The only response she got from John was a brief nod, not even accompanied by his usual polite - if fake - smile in such situations. 

She looked at him with open concern. “John, have a bite at least.” 

“It’s good,” Molly said encouragingly around a mouthful of pumpernickel with camembert, but John only stared at the platter for several seconds, arms crossed in front of his chest with no inclination to reach out. 

“I…” He looked through the round briefly and let out a barely audible sigh. “Sorry, but I… I can’t do this. I’ve--” Walking past them all to the door he only stopped once, turned his head for a fraction, and Sherlock wondered whether he should follow. “I need to be alone for a while. Sorry.” 

Nobody in the room seemed to know what to say, though it was most apparent on Harry’s features that she wanted to do something, feeling as helpless as Sherlock. 

She sighed and let her hand wander to her forehead. “He’s always been like that. Bottling everything up,” she explained and let out a sad chuckle. “Which is why I couldn’t believe it when he started therapy. He probably spent most of the sessions just sitting there in silence.” 

The joke that was further to the truth than anyone knew was requited with no more than a few faint chuckles. An awkward silence settled in the room as everyone but Sherlock was nibbling on the canapés. 

“It’s all so sad,” Mrs Hudson broke the silence, shaking her head. “The poor baby. Growing up without her mother.” She had refilled her brandy glass and downed it in one large gulp. “Though maybe… I know you shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but… She seemed so lovely at first, but I’m thinking she wasn’t such a nice person after all. What with her shooting Sherlock and all.”

“What!?” Harry and Molly simultaneously stared back and forth between Mrs Hudson and Sherlock in disbelief. 

“I thought… you said you didn’t see the shooter’s face,” Molly said, confused, while Harry’s face was contorted into a grimace of the same. Only Lestrade looked completely unfazed by the revelation. 

“You knew?” Molly asked as she followed Sherlock’s gaze, and Lestrade shrugged. 

“Yes. My brother told him.” 

Now Lestrade looked up, his expression somewhat offended. “You know, it was clear that you were protecting the shooter. And a few months later you shot Magnussen for having dirt on Mary. I can make a  _ deduction  _ too.”

“You could. But my brother did tell you,” Sherlock replied calmly and watched Lestrade roll his eyes. 

“All right, he did. But I had my suspicions.”

“Will you just bloody hang on?” Harry exclaimed. “Because neither of you are making any sense. What the hell happened?” 

Sherlock let out a low sigh. Even though all of their reactions and their curiosity were justified, he did not enjoy diving into the topic. He did not think it was in John’s interest to tell them the whole story - which was impossible to do without revealing details on Mary that painted her in a completely different, much gloomier light. Yet, while Molly could learn it all from Greg, Harry would not budge so easily, and it was better she learn it from Sherlock than John having to retell the events. 

He took a deep breath and began to talk. 

Two and a half hours later, after the conversation had settled on various other topics of less shocking value, Harry was the last to leave. She had helped Mrs Hudson clean up while Molly and Lestrade had left half an hour earlier, and it was plain as day that Harry had stalled in case John would come downstairs so she could at least say goodbye. 

While Molly had been quite unperturbed by the entire tale due to vast personal experience - after all, psychopaths and other morally ambiguous figures were nothing new to her - Harry had been absolutely appalled by the tale. Though Sherlock had done his utmost to explain the events as factually and neutrally as possible - or even more in a way that justified some of Mary’s actions. But not even the fact that Mary had endangered and in the end sacrificed her own life to save John had made Harry forgive her, and Sherlock felt like it had been a huge mistake to speak about the whole thing in the first place. At least without John present - it was as if he was now using the chance to speak ill about Mary behind his back. 

There was just no way to do any of this right. 

It was completely dark outside already. The rain that had started earlier this afternoon had become heavier and heavier and its patter against the windows was the only sound in the living room. Sherlock had moved the chairs back to their designated spaces, sitting in his, though he was far from relaxed. Every now and then, he let his gaze drift to the door, as if that action alone could conjure John. John, who had been up in his room all alone on the day of his wife’s funeral, for hours now. 

It was even later - how much, Sherlock couldn’t tell - when he finally heard steps on the staircase and, a moment later, saw the door open and John step through it. He barely acknowledged Sherlock’s presence and walked right into the kitchen to fill a glass with tap water and drink it all in one go. His posture tense, he remained standing by the kitchen table with his back towards Sherlock; several long moments passed in which Sherlock couldn’t come up with anything useful to say, until finally John spoke. 

“I read the file.” 

_ Ah. Finally _ ,  Sherlock thought. There were three possible ways this could proceed, and Sherlock only knew how to handle one. 

“She. Everything was a lie. Everything.” John still hadn’t turned; his voice was trembling with suppressed rage. “Her name, her entire bloody life story. Our entire fucking relationship!” 

None of it was news to John; most of it had been revealed a long time ago, other details more recently by Mycroft, and yet it had obviously taken John some time for the facts to sink in to their full magnitude. 

Sherlock had nothing to say, nothing he could or should add. John needed to get this off his chest. 

“She… she lied and cheated her way through her entire life. She killed so many people, and--” Bitterness was overshadowing the anger in him before it could surface with full force. “She was working for Moriarty, for Christ’s sake! I was her bloody assignment. Just a. Fucking. Job!” 

Sherlock barely even flinched when John turned around and, with one forceful swipe of his arm, cleared the kitchen table of its contents (a bread basket, teapot and the sugar bowl, the latter of which surprisingly survived the fall without breaking into shards, unlike the teapot). 

“How could I not see it? And how could you let me?!” 

Sherlock swallowed hard. 

“I didn’t--”

“Don’t you dare tell me you didn’t know. Don’t you fucking dare!” John’s voice had risen to an angry yell, his finger pointed at Sherlock, his entire body language threatening and tense. “Even if you didn’t know all the details. You knew something was wrong. You knew!”

“Yes,” Sherlock simply admitted, not knowing what else to do or say and wondering whether all his reasoning behind his lack of action had not been a gigantic error in judgement. 

“Was none of it ever real? Hm? Katie maybe isn’t even my daughter, for all I know.” 

“She is yours,” Sherlock said quickly as the anger in John visibly shifted to despair - option three then; and it broke Sherlock’s heart. 

“You’re just saying that same as you’ve explained her shooting you and everything else, because she obviously even fooled the great Sherlock Holmes enough to protect her and keep his bloody mouth shut!”

“Mycroft had her DNA tested against yours for this reason. She is your daughter, John.” 

“Mycroft had-- You tell your brother he does anything with my daughter again without my permission he’s dead!” John shot back, though he relaxed a bit, releasing a few heaving breaths and keeping his eyes closed for a moment, obviously struggling to endure the powerful, unpleasant emotions he was experiencing. 

“I don’t know what to think anymore.” John let his shoulders slump, defeated, deep breaths leaving him as he leaned forward against the kitchen table. He was fighting hard to keep his composure, though Sherlock guessed he wouldn’t succeed for much longer. 

“It was real to her,” he said then, hoping to offer at least some consolation. 

“Was it, though? Was it really?” Bitterness again, but also a spark of desperate hope. 

Sherlock took a deep breath and chose his words carefully. “John, you didn’t see beyond the facade because what you saw was no less real. If there’s one thing that can be said about Mary without a doubt it’s that she loved you. In every way she was capable of. She  _ loved _ you.” 

John looked at Sherlock for a long moment, expression blank at first, but the strain of something held back was obvious on the lines on his forehead and the glistening in his eyes. And then it happened, the one thing Sherlock had dreaded the most, though maybe it needed to happen. 

John broke. 

Every bit of strength just crumbled to dust with the heaving sob that left him then. Eyes pressed shut but tears flowing nevertheless, shoulders drawn up as shaky fingers dug into the surface of the table until his knuckles went white. John could not keep it in any longer -  the grief, regret and hurt, and Sherlock did the one thing that he could come up with, more instinctively than anything: he got up and crossed the distance between them to take John in his arms and hug him tight. 

John was digging into his upper arms forcefully through two layers of clothing as he sobbed. Heaving, drawn-out sounds left him, and each of them tore at Sherlock’s heart. He had no words to offer to ease John’s pain, just the tight embrace with which he held him, one hand at the back of John’s neck, drawing soothing circles, hoping it would help. Somewhat. Somehow. 

“I was so… awful to her,” John said hoarsely. “The last time we-- Before I came here. We had a quarrel. I said such cruel things and I can’t take them back. And she… Jesus she saved my life. Why the--” But he couldn’t finish the question as a new sob made him choke and gasp for air. 

“As I said: she did love you,” Sherlock said softly against John’s hair. “How could she not?” 

John’s crying hardly subsided, just the heavy sobs did, and the grip of his hands relaxed somewhat, but he remained in the same position for a few, long moments. Almost without conscious thought, Sherlock kissed the side of John’s head. 

Slowly, John drew back from the tight embrace and looked up at him. His eyes were red and swollen, face drowned in tears. Then something happened that Sherlock could not have predicted: John leaned in to kiss Sherlock. Only a soft contact of lips, deep breath inhaled through his nose, eyes shut (Sherlock’s were open), John gently pressed his lips against Sherlock’s, and Sherlock could not, for the life of him, understand what it meant. 

Was it simply a gesture of gratitude? A kiss, with the complete absence of passion - just a means to convey what words could not. It must be something like it, he thought, when John slowly drew back and opened his eyes again. Such sadness in them as Sherlock had never seen it, but a deep pain of betrayal, too. 

Then something shifted in John’s gaze, and suddenly he leaned forward again. One hand in the back of Sherlock’s neck, John kissed him fiercely, drew him down closer and pressed his entire body up against him. And now it was rather obvious that there was more to it than Sherlock had initially thought. A desperate need for comfort seemed to be what drove John to tear at the fabric of Sherlock’s jacket. Lips forcing Sherlock’s to open, tongue demanding as it slid against his own. 

Sherlock still did not understand John’s motivation entirely, or even his full intentions, but it did not matter. Having John pressed against him, feeling his hot breath against his lips, hands now very determinedly seeking to remove at least part of his clothes, Sherlock could not care  _ why _ .  And he could not bring himself to make it stop. Not this time. 

A trembling sigh escaped him and a shiver ran down his spine, straight into his groin, like so rarely ever happened. Never like this, not even in his most private thoughts. His entire body felt like it was engulfed by warm, pleasant, tingling flames, and his breath caught in his throat when he first felt John rub himself against his hip, then a hand, firm and warm against the front of his trousers. 

Sherlock had divorced himself from feelings a long time ago, but also from the desires of his body - except for very few instances in which he had to get it out of his system as a pure means to relax and focus again. And before that, in his adolescence, there had been curiosities, but he had never fulfilled them. Never before had they felt so strong as for John Watson, and he thought, in this moment when John’s hands pushed his jacket over his arms, lips barely ever parting for more than a second, this, with John, was the only time it would ever make him feel so raw with need for another body. 

John was the one person that had, so far, reached every part of Sherlock he had long thought degenerated, discarded as useless and hindering. As if he had dug him free layer by layer to find him bare and naked underneath, everything he was and wanted and needed and never had acknowledged, even to himself. 

He barely even registered how they moved towards the sofa; John had dropped his cardigan and opened his belt, and as his hand tore at Sherlock’s buckle he could not help but let another trembling sound, almost a whimper, leave his lips, only to be covered by John’s mouth again the very next moment as they sank, John on top, onto the sofa. To his great dismay he noticed that his own fingers were shaking as he tried to open the buttons of John’s shirt, and all he could do was let John take the lead, removing whatever clothing he deemed in the way; he tore Sherlock’s shirt out of his trousers and quicker than the buttons would have permitted opened it. A hand roamed over Sherlock’s chest, frantic and fast, as John pushed one knee between Sherlock’s legs. Whatever they were about to do - and Sherlock could form no coherent thought on it - the aching feeling of arousal told him that it would not be of long duration, at least not for him. 

He moaned against the touch of John’s hand, hissed when it slid inside his pants and covered his full length, and he could do nothing but pull John closer with one hand for another kiss he was not able to keep up for long thanks to the shaking breaths that left him. 

Then, John pushed his own trousers and pants down, and a moment later Sherlock felt the hardness of John’s cock slide against his own. It took all his effort to remind himself to continue breathing. He watched John lean above him on one arm and, as the first interruption of the hitherto frantic, hasty movements, gently let his thumb caress Sherlock’s lower lip. Their gazes locked for a moment, and Sherlock’s tongue darted out to lick the finger softly, and the first throaty moan escaped John. Then he pushed first index, then middle finger into Sherlock’s mouth who followed the invitation and let his tongue encircle the digits, sucking on them. It was likely the most _ obscene _ thing Sherlock had ever done, and he felt completely exhilarated by it, with the promise that lay in the action of what else he would do, gladly, right in this instant if John would have it. 

But John seemed to have other plans for the moment. Withdrawing his fingers, he spit into his palm and brought it between them to wet their erections with their combined saliva. Then he started moving, his hand firmly wrapped around them both, weight supported with his other, and Sherlock had to press his eyes shut, bite his lower lip as he felt his body go tense with pleasure. 

It did not take long then; John pushed them in and out of his hand, his own breathing becoming ragged and heavy, and much quicker than he would have liked - though it must have been a few minutes - Sherlock felt his abdomen twitch. Everything grew even tenser and harder for a few short moments, caught there on the edge of release, before his entire body became heavy and pulled him down, down from the height of his climax that shook through his midst with its slowly subsiding aftershocks. John followed almost right after, one breath coming out as a groan before he remained rigid on top of Sherlock a few seconds. Then, he all but collapsed on top of Sherlock. Chest to chest, sticky from sweat and semen on their bellies, they remained like that. Sherlock was still catching his breath, his body feeling worn-out but pleasantly so, though there was a heaviness in him, too, that he could not quite pinpoint.  _ La petite mort _ was a quite fitting expression after all. 

When he was sure to have the strength for it - how pathetic to even doubt it - he brought a hand up and caressed the side of John’s face, up to his sweat-moist hair. He wanted John to look at him, to kiss him again, to just stay here, filthy as they were, for a while. When John finally lifted his head, however, the gentle expression on his face only lasted for the fraction of a second. He blinked and looked away as he slowly pushed himself up. 

“I. Christ, what am I doing?” 

Sherlock wanted to reach out, wanted to tell John that it was fine - whichever part he doubted; Sherlock’s mind had not fully caught on just yet - but John was already sitting on the sofa, pulling pants and trousers back up. 

“John?”

He let out a low groan. “Jesus. This is… Sherlock, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t-- She’s not even been.” Another ragged groan and John blinked into the empty space before him. 

Despite the fragmented words it became very obvious what exactly John was trying to say, and Sherlock wanted to slap himself for not having anticipated it, for having let his desires get the better of him. 

“Sorry,” John repeated, but Sherlock could not blame him at all. 

It really had been just a need for comfort, for physical closeness, release and relaxation. Nothing more. He had been foolish to kid himself for those sweet and blissful minutes in which it had been so easy to forget everything else. 

“It’s…” He had to clear his throat as his breath caught in the back of it. “Fine. It’s fine. I, um, should shower,” he started and sat up as well. “Or do you want to go first?” 

John barely turned his head, not looking at Sherlock directly before he nodded. “If you don’t mind. I need to get to bed.”

Sherlock shook his head. “Go.” 

A final nod from John but still no eye-contact, and he headed towards the bathroom. 

Sherlock leaned against the back of the sofa, adjusting his clothes as much as was possible in their sodden state. How cruel it was, he thought, to get a taste of what he’d always wanted only to realise it wouldn’t last. And how stupid to let it happen. Then again, if this was the last and only opportunity he should ever have to experience what he just had with John, the regret that followed was an adequate price to pay. 

Or so he wanted to believe. 

  
  
  


 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, finally the next chapter. Sorry it took a bit longer, but thanks to by beta-reader Erin I worked on quite a few details with her patiently reading them again and again until it all made sense ;) Sometimes you write something and you don't even realise it lacks quite a few important bits, so big thanks to her for being so critical and constructive! 
> 
> One thing I wanted to mention: When I had started this fic I had planned to include Molly and Lestrade a bit more, hence the pairing in the tags. It didn't work out that way, though, so I hope nobody was disappointed about that. I was thinking about writing an outtake or something of the sort. Would anybody be interested? ;) 
> 
> I think there was something else I wanted to say something on, but sadly I haven't perfected my mind palace yet and it's all quite a mess up there - I need a maid! lol. I am once more looking forward to your comments and can only tell you again how much they mean to me. I'm really grateful for every single one, and the only reason I may not reply to all is that I'd sound repetitive and don't really want to 'spam' my own fic with comments made by me, if that makes any sense. ^^
> 
> The next chapter will be really, really long. I sent it to my beta-reader already, but I can't promise I'll post it by next Friday or Saturday. It's possible I'll have to revise a few bits, so, please, if you don't see a new chapter next weekend have a few more days of patience. And don't worry that I won't finish this fic.

**Chapter 12**

 

John heard the faint cries of his daughter from the bathroom and groaned. Her daybed was standing in the living room and Sherlock was there, doing something on his laptop. Yet, it didn’t seem like he was inclined to move his arse and at least check on Katie while John sat there on the toilet, unable to do anything. There were things you simply couldn’t speed up even if you wanted to.

When he had finished and quickly but thoroughly washed his hands, he sped through the kitchen and, as he had expected, found Sherlock completely unperturbed by the crying baby. Leaving any lectures on child care for later, John gently lifted the baby from the bed and held her against his chest, carefully patting her back. He had changed her nappy just about an hour ago and fed her as well, but he suspected Katie simply wanted to be held or had some mild stomach ache. Her cries already subsided as he walked a few steps up and down the living room, caressing her back and speaking soothingly to her. And sure enough, after a few more minutes, she was completely quiet, nuzzled up against him and most likely about to doze off. At least there was one thing he apparently could do right.

His glance automatically drifted over to Sherlock who was still occupied with his work. Not even a glimpse in John’s and the baby’s direction. It had been like that ever since the evening after the funeral…

John suppressed a sigh and carefully put his daughter back into her bed, which he decided to put it into the corner between the door and the sofa - the farthest away from Sherlock and his laptop. There was a possibility she didn’t approve of the typing noises all too much.

“You know,” he started, not able to endure the awkward silence and minimal conversation between them any longer. Of the many things that kept him up at night - aside from a crying baby - this was one of the biggest. “You could check on her too, sometime.” John tried to keep his tone free from reproach; after all, taking care of infants wasn’t something that came to everyone naturally. However, he had the distinct and nagging worry that Sherlock wasn’t even interested in learning it.

“I was busy,” Sherlock replied, not even looking up. “Besides, I knew you wouldn’t be in the bathroom for long. Usually, when you go this time of day you never take longer than four minutes.”

John stared at the back of Sherlock’s head, unnerved by the fact that his flatmate didn’t even bother to look at him as they were speaking nor showed any other signs of emotion. He had grown, for the lack of a better word, cold, and John couldn’t help but wondering if Sherlock was hurt or ashamed - or both. It had been anything but ideal, that. He knew it. But John also couldn’t help that he simply… couldn’t. Didn’t know how or what and why and… No, he couldn’t even bring himself to think about it. Not now. Not yet.

“Are you keeping track of my bowel movements?” he asked instead. If only to get some sort of conversation going. Something normal - at least by their slightly skewed standards.

“I just observe. I’m not keeping an excel spreadsheet, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Right.”

“Not at the time,” Sherlock added, and John chose just to ignore that bit of information. He had seen and experienced much weirder things with Sherlock.

The typing resumed and it became apparent that Sherlock was not going to keep the conversation going by himself. John let out a soft groan and headed into the kitchen. Tea then. Just when he had reached the kettle, however, he stopped and looked at Sherlock again. Images flashed up in his mind of their own accord. Parted lips, darkened eyes, exposed skin underneath his fingertips, delicious moans and sighs…

It wasn’t the first time they had come up, but same as always, John closed his eyes for a moment and fought them off. He shouldn’t have let it come that far. As much as he had wanted it, and as much as these memories sent a shiver down his back and goosebumps all over his skin. It was too soon. Just wrong. And John couldn’t even bring himself to think about it too much and too often, let alone address it, because that would mean dealing with it and with what his actions had or had not triggered in Sherlock. Added to the guilt about practically having cheated on his wife came that of having let down,  _used_ , his best friend, having played with his feelings in a way no tragic circumstances could ever justify. If Sherlock’s distant attitude did spring from disappointment and hurt then he had all the right to act that way, and John couldn’t deny the fear that he might have ruined something… something that could have worked. Later, at the right time.

He had his daughter to worry about, though, first and foremost, before he even could consider thinking about anything else.  

“But you really could, you know? Pick her up sometime,” he said, having come a few steps closer again.

“Mhm.” Just a faint murmur as Sherlock continued typing and clicking, and John still didn’t know whether it was a sign of reservation due to lack of knowledge and experience or complete disinterest in the baby.

John breathed in deeply and started to make tea.

Katie had been home for five days now, and in all this time Sherlock hadn’t even once held her, let alone given her the bottle or changed her nappies. And even though John didn’t feel completely overburdened with her care, sleep had been scarce - for various reasons - and a little support wouldn’t do him any harm. Support that you would get from a partner, a second parent. But this was not the case here, was it?

If John looked at the evidence to this puzzle - as Sherlock would do - he’d find many a reason to believe that this might work. Whatever this was and could be - living together, for now, as they had done to for so long. Sherlock had gone quite out of his way to take care of setting up a home there for them. He had talked Mrs Hudson into finally giving up the attic room upstairs and moving her things to the perpetually-empty basement flat. He had tasked some people from his homeless network with the renovations of the room, turning it from a run-down attic space into a cosy nursery within just two days. He had organised the move and even bought additional items for the baby. In short, he had done everything to indicate that he wanted John and Katie to stay with him, to provide an adequate home for them after the old one was no longer an option.

But that all was as far as it had gone, and John wondered, as he had done over the past few days on multiple occasion, whether all these superficial details could ever be enough.

He had tried not to think too much of a future, even before that Saturday. Despite everything, it still hurt to think of Mary, of what he could have had with her if he’d never known of everything she’d tried to hide. And every time his thoughts even just remotely drifted into that direction, he realised that he was afraid he would come to the conclusion that he and Mary hadn’t been meant for eachother after all. Maybe even if she hadn’t turned out to be an assassin that once worked for Moriarty.

It was all still too fresh, too raw and painful to think about. He felt both guilty and betrayed and didn’t know which of the two he should let win.

Taking a first sip of his still very hot tea, he let his gaze drift to Sherlock again, and as so often, there was something heavy in his midst that he could now identify as longing. Going over there, putting a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and leaning down to kiss his cheek - it didn’t seem so absurd. But it was in these moments - when he was not just remembering what couldn’t be changed anymore but actively imagining - that his guilt surfaced most strongly. A deep sense of shame even how, despite everything, he could just get over Mary’s death and move on to what he apparently had wanted all along.

What a fucking mess he was in. And the one person who had so far solved any part of the puzzle was much too involved himself… and distant and cool towards John on top of it.

What mattered now the most was his daughter, the best life and environment for her, and John dreaded these thoughts most of all because they always led him to the realisation that he didn’t know if he could provide what she needed. Much less if he had to do this all alone.

Three uneventful days later, these thoughts surfaced in a different context.

It was afternoon, and Greg and Molly had come by for a spontaneous visit. The two of them were sitting on the sofa (and Sherlock had even been so hospitable as to serve tea; though he also kept asking Greg for any cases he needed consulting on, so the intention behind the gesture was questionable), and Molly’s face lit up in pure delight when John carefully put Katie into her arms.

“Gosh, she’s beautiful,” she said, voice trembling ever so slightly as she gently took one of Katie’s hands in hers and caressed the tiny fingers.

“She is,” Greg said, leaning in closer to take a better look at the baby. He had one arm wrapped around Molly’s shoulder, and, with the other, he reluctantly reached for Katie’s head, as if he was worried he could break her, but then let his fingers caress the soft peach fuzz on her head. His eyes, too, were shining and a wide grin was on his lips. It became even more tender when he let his gaze wander to Molly’s face.

The feeling in John’s chest was both warm - touched by the display of a couple who seemed very much in love with and perfectly suited for each other - and heavy when he realised that this was something he couldn’t give Katie. Or could he?

Almost automatically, he looked over to Sherlock who sat in a chair, facial expression perfectly even, almost unreadable. No sign of delight or joy on his features. John knew, had witnessed so often, that Sherlock was capable of so much more than he initially let on, but right now and over the past few days he seemed like the machine John had once accused him of being. And John had no idea how to handle it, what to make of it.

“She’s heavier than I thought,” Molly chuckled and looked up at John.

“Well, she even lost some weight after birth,” John said and, as Greg looked at him with mild worry, explained: “It’s normal. They have to adjust to life outside the womb, first. There’s much more muscle activity, and their metabolism changes. But she’s back to her birth weight now. Grown an inch already, too.”

“Wow, I didn’t know that,” Greg said in fascination. “Does she let you sleep enough then?”

“Hardly,” John replied. “Three hours at most. Then I have to feed her again. I got five hours of sleep straight last evening because Mrs Hudson was so kind to take her for a bit.” He couldn’t help the small jab aimed at Sherlock if only to elicit a reaction. It never came.

Molly and Greg, however, briefly looked at Sherlock in question. Even they seemed to think, as John’s best friend and flatmate, that Sherlock should be more helpful.

“More tea?” Sherlock asked with a fake-polite smile, evading any further questions.

“Um, no, I’m good,” Greg said, and Molly shook her head.

“Well, while you two get familiarised with the concept of having offspring of your own I need to head out,” Sherlock announced and, getting up from the chair closed the buttons of his jacket.

“Where are you going?” John asked, again feeling regret and a vague sense of disappointment and hurt. Wherever this was going it certainly wasn’t good.

“I have things to discuss with my brother. There’s still a terrorist on the loose.” Sherlock briefly smiled at Molly and Greg and then headed out of the door, leaving John frustrated and helpless.

“So… any news on that then?” Greg asked carefully and John shook his head.

“No. Nothing yet. He’s probably miles away already, for all we know. Though Sherlock and Mycroft suspect he’s planning something.”

“Are you even safe?” Molly wanted to know, her brow furrowed in worry.

  


“I hope so. Mycroft’s got agents all around. Extra surveillance on the entire street.” He shrugged, though he couldn’t deny that there was a constant fear the Colonel would somehow slip past them and attack. The sooner they caught the bastard the better, and John wasn’t sure whether he wanted to be involved in it or not because it would surely end with him putting a bullet through the Colonel’s brain.

“Well, I’m sure Sherlock and Mycroft will figure something out. They always do,” Greg said just as Katie started to whimper softly in Molly’s arms.

“Is she hungry?” Molly asked somewhat worried as she soothingly caressed the baby’s rosy cheek with her index finger.

“Just sleepy I guess. I should put her down for her nap.” John took his daughter from Molly and gently rocked her in his arms for a moment, and he noticed with pride that Molly was looking at the baby with a longing expression. She probably would have liked to hold her for a little bit longer, as did everyone who had met her - aside from Sherlock.

“I suppose we should go then,” Greg said and got up from the sofa. “Let the little one catch some sleep.”

The soft whimpering turned into slightly louder cries and John nodded at his guests, not wanting to put Katie into her bed upstairs while he stayed with his guests, and knowing she wouldn’t sleep undisturbed if he kept her here and they continued their conversation right next to her. “Sorry,” he said with a faint chuckle.

“It’s all right,” Molly replied. She had also left her seat but was hesitating to head for the door, exchanging a look with Greg that might as well have hidden an entire telepathic conversation. “Listen, if you ever need anything. A day off or something, you can call us any time.”

“We’d love to have her,” Greg confirmed.

John was deeply grateful for the offer, but it once again made him experience that heavy, sad feeling in his chest that slowly but surely made him wonder where this all was heading. And how he wished that he could just forget all the bad, the obstacles, the moral obligations and do what he wanted.  _Get_ what he wanted. And wish for these things without guilt. But his own thoughts and feelings on the matter weren’t the only giant metaphorical question marks hovering above him that made him arrive at a dead end.  As it seemed at the moment, the only interest Sherlock had in Katie was out of courtesy to John, and that wouldn’t do.

“Thanks. I might take you up on that,” he said, hoping to conceal his worries with the smile he was wearing, but both Molly’s and Greg’s gaze revealed that they saw right through him.

He would definitely have to do something. Just what, John had no idea.

~*~

The limousine was already waiting when Sherlock stepped onto the pavement, but to his surprise it wasn’t Anthea who was waiting for him when he got inside but Janine.

“Hello Sherlock,” she greeted with her usual friendly and slightly coquettish smile,  but a mild concern and awkwardness was barely hidden by her gaze.

“Hm, I would have thought, after Magnussen, you’d have scruples about selling your soul to another devil,” Sherlock said with dry amusement. “Didn’t you want to move to Sussex?”

Janine let out a breathy chuckle. “I’m not working for Mycroft. Well, at least not long-term. He just gave me the opportunity to talk to you after everything that happened.”

“You could have just come by,” Sherlock replied, anticipating her answer.

“I’m not sure John would have liked that.”

Sherlock shrugged vaguely and let his gaze drift towards the window, watching the houses pass by. What John would have liked… It automatically took him back to thoughts he had tried to push into the farthest corner of his mind over the past few days. Yet he could not help them from surfacing on occasion, always leading him to wishes and hopes that seemed difficult, if not impossible, to fulfil. At least at present, John’s reaction after that incident on the sofa (sex, lovemaking - Sherlock had no idea how to even call it, how to explain it and put into words or coherent thoughts what it had meant to him) had told him so much.

But Sherlock could not think of that now, could not allow himself to let his thoughts spiral into the depth of need and longing he found nearly impossible to ignore. While the body was only transport and its needs easy to control, the matters of the heart were the most powerful opponent to even the greatest willpower. And Sherlock hated that fact everytime he found himself in that endless space between wanting and wondering.

He inhaled deeply and turned to look at Janine again after neither of them had spoken for a few seconds. “So?” he asked, brows raised and a fake smile on his lips.

Now it was Janine who glanced away to, conceal her unease. “Well.”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry,” she finally said, now looking him in the eyes again with what he recognised as her sincere gaze, no trace of a lie or ulterior motive that he could discern. Same as back at the hospital when she had told him they could have been friends. Despite her mischievous delight at taking revenge on him then, and despite her involvement in Mycroft’s scheme, Sherlock was convinced that Janine was not a dishonest person.

“For what?” he asked even though he knew the answer.

And Janine seemed to see through him. She rolled her eyes and shook her head in amused exasperation before she gave him the same serious look again. “Well, firstly for not realising that Mycroft’s plan wasn’t just about the Colonel.”

“Ah. That. Wiser and more intelligent people have fallen for my brother’s schemes before. Don’t blame yourself for that naivité.”

“Um. Thanks, I suppose,” she said, her eyes briefly narrowed as she obviously tried to make up her mind on whether she should be offended or not. She took a deep breath then. “And secondly for how everything went. I… Maybe it was my fault, I don’t know. That he shot Mary. If I hadn’t barged in there maybe you all could have gotten out there alive.”

The time for teasing mockery was over now, even Sherlock realised that, and so, when he looked at Janine, turning slightly in his seat, he made sure to wear the same sincere expression he had received from her. “You could not have predicted how the events would unfold. And it is also likely that your involvement saved our lives. There’s no possibility to know unless we could turn back time and try it all over again.”

She let out a somewhat bitter chuckle. “Yeah, if only I had a Tardis.”

“A what?”

She looked back at him incredulously. “The Tardis and the Doctor?”

“What doctor?”

“Doctor who?”

Sherlock looked left and right, trying to make sense of her words but unable to. “That’s… what I was asking.”

“You know,” she went on after having stared at him for a couple of more seconds. “For someone who claims to be a genius you’re incredibly ignorant of pop culture. And quite forgetful. We watched Doctor Who at your place one time. Or, well, I watched it. You were probably drifting off into your mind palace to figure out how to best avoid me getting into your pants.”

“That sounds likely,” Sherlock replied dryly, though a small smile spread on his lips a moment later.

Janine laughed softly but turned serious again a few moments later. “Sherlock, I hope you understand that I didn’t tell you about being Jim’s sister not because I wanted to keep it from you as a part of a scheme or something. I… it’s something I’ve tried to put behind me for a long time. But I guess at some point your past just catches up with you. You can’t help it.”

Sherlock didn’t know how to respond. He’d never been good at giving words of consolation unless they were based on facts he could present, and so he said the only thing he could come up with, sighing deeply as introduction to his joke. “Yes, I know the feeling. Sadly, Mycroft can’t keep his nose out of my business.”

And same as this tactic always worked on John it did so on Janine smirked faintly. “Something we do have in common then, after all.”

Sherlock smiled at her, not so much as a strategic means but because he actually felt like it. Maybe they really could have been friends, he thought, and it let a slight feeling of guilt surface in him. “I suppose I should also apologise. It wasn’t fair to you to use you as a means to my end.”

“Okay, enough with the touchy-feely rubbish,” she said. “But… thank you. I think we are even though.”

“Right. How’s the cottage?”

“Still full of bees,” Janine replied, rolling her eyes. “I’m thinking I should have bought a flat in Hampstead or Kensington. Besides, I did get a job offer through your brother after all. Not to work for him directly but for someone at the DCMS. He apparently has connections to all ministries and departments. I might just take it. At least it’d be more honest and useful work.”

“I’m surprised he didn’t offer you a job at MI6,” Sherlock said jokingly. “What with your skills and experience. I admit I was quite surprised that you knew how to use a gun.”

Janine’s brows rose and her eyes widened slightly, a smirk on her lips. “Oh Sherlock, when will you finally learn not to underestimate women? I grew up on a farm, of course I know how to shoot a gun.”

“But in Ireland, not…” Sherlock went through nations and areas with less strict gun regulation laws in his head. “Utah.”

“Yes, but my mam had a certificate. There were lots of ducks where I grew up. Best you’ve ever eaten.”

It seemed that avoiding serious topics with jokes was another thing they had in common. Sherlock could sense that there was a lot they hadn’t touched yet which Janine still wanted to get off her chest; it didn’t take an awfully perceptive person to notice the way she was fidgeting with the cuff of her blouse or how the amused expressions faded from her features quickly to make room for a more contemplative gaze.

“I’m sure Mycroft will inform me of any progress, but there’s one question I’ve meant to ask: you said your brother introduced you to the Colonel in the past. How come you didn’t know his name?”

“Oh, well. It was never a full introduction. They showed up on my doorstep - when I had just moved to London to go to uni - but I closed the door in his face before he could even finish his sentence. I didn’t want to have anything to do with Jim. I had no idea what he’d become, then, but… he’d always been strange. Scary even. How he manipulated mam and the teachers, and then that poor babysitter he drove to a nervous breakdown. And his father wasn’t much better.”

“So… you have the same mother, different father. You’re younger, yet you spent the first years of your life together,” Sherlock remarked, having a couple of theories on how that all fit together.

“Well, Mam and Ian, Jim’s father, were separated for a few months. It was an on and off thing. She always took him back until he finally figured out he couldn’t be my father and left her for good. She never really got over it, but when they moved to England I just thought: good riddance.”

“But he tried to keep in touch,” Sherlock prompted and Janine nodded.

“Sent me letters. Later found out my mobile phone number, God knows how, and my e-mail address. And then we kept hearing things, nothing specific, but Ian let something slip to my mam. Two months later, he was dead. One week after Jim’s eighteenth birthday.”

This detail was no news to Sherlock; during the years of research on Moriarty the mysterious circumstances of Ian Moriarty’s death had, of course, come up. But Sherlock let Janine talk without interruption, nevertheless.

“So when the name popped up on the news for the first time I was scared, and I tried to learn as much about him as possible without getting into the line of fire. That’s when I got the job offer at Magnussen’s office. I only learned through your brother that Jim most likely had made that possible.”

“Well, Magnussen got a lot of his information from Moriarty, so the conclusion that he knew who you were and gave you the job as a favour for Jim or because you had spiked his interest isn’t a far-fetched one to make,” Sherlock added.

“Yeah, that’s what Mike said,” Janine replied. “I’m just really glad it’s all over now. Well. Almost. Once the Colonel is caught.”

Sherlock couldn’t tell whether it was true conviction on her side or desperate hope, but he, too, needed to believe and be sure that they would put the Colonel behind bars or eliminate him completely. As long as he was free, none of them were truly safe.

“I’m sure my brother has a plan already, or ten,” Sherlock said calmingly as the limousine pulled up close to its destination.

Janine nodded and smiled, her brown eyes just vaguely shining with a worry that revealed that the latter of Sherlock’s earlier guesses applied.

The car came to a halt but Janine made no effort to get out; the driver would probably take her to the hotel where she was residing for the time being.

“Tell John I’m really sorry, okay?” she said as Sherlock had got out of the seat.

His hand on the door, he bent down to look back at her. “I will,” he promised, and found gratitude in her expression.

Friends maybe, after all.

  
  


 


	13. Chapter 13

****

Another week had passed and the situation in Baker Street had stagnated somewhere in a grey area between normality and constant uncertainty. Katie would be three weeks old tomorrow and she was sleeping more regularly now, allowing John at least four undisturbed hours of sleep each night. A few days ago, a second microwave had miraculously appeared in his bedroom and with it a few bottles of spring water that allowed him to prepare formula quickly and feed his daughter without even having to leave his room. 

When just a few years ago Sherlock couldn’t even be arsed to get some milk, necessary equipment for the baby was now always on hand. The kitchen was kept mostly clean and the fridge free of any biohazards and body parts. All of this made John think that Sherlock made quite an effort to take care of them as best he could. However, the gratitude over such small gestures never lasted for long. 

Aside from the fact that they still hadn’t addressed the big, big unresolved ‘what now’ - and the longer John postponed it the less he wanted to even talk about it - Sherlock still didn’t seem interested in the baby. Whenever John had asked Sherlock to watch her for a bit or tried to encourage him to feed her (God forbid he suggest Sherlock change her nappies) Sherlock had provided a convenient excuse. Either he needed to see Mycroft, or Molly - probably to conduct his experiments at Bart’s instead of at home - or he called for Mrs Hudson to take over.  

John had meant to get to the bottom of this, but whenever he found the time in between dirty nappies, baby bottles, baths and doctor’s visits, Sherlock had a prompt reason at hand to evade any communication. And with every passing day, John was getting more and more tired of this whole messed up situation. He couldn’t even recall anymore what it felt like to simply be at ease with his own thoughts and feelings. For so long now, ever since that first kiss with which Sherlock had completely knocked him off the ground, he simply couldn’t find his way back onto his feet. Nothing made sense anymore, and nothing was right. Though, as more time passed, he felt the gnawing guilt of Mary's death shrinking, allowing him a few moments of peace when he didn't feel obligated to remind himself of what had happened to her - and what his duty to her was now that she was gone.

It should be impossible for him to even consider a new relationship now, so soon after. At least, that was what one would usually say and think and feel in such a situation, was it not? Anyone with an ounce of morality in them. That, however, didn’t stop John from wanting, and the more he wanted - gazing at Sherlock from a distance when his flatmate was busy on his computer or with some other task - the more he wondered whether it could ever work. Now that he didn’t only have himself to think of. 

Being with Sherlock Holmes, raising a child with him together - it seemed like the most ridiculous idea John could ever have. And no matter how much he liked to believe that perhaps it was a valid option, more and more evidence would surface to shake him of that hope. Just two days ago he had come back downstairs from a short nap just in time to overhear Sherlock groaning at the crying baby in frustration and saying that she was ‘utterly useless’. If John had needed more confirmation that Sherlock only put up with Katie for John’s sake he didn’t need any further proof now. He knew he soon would have to come to a decision, as much as it hurt.

That Sunday evening, John knew he couldn’t put it off any longer, and so, after having changed Katie and putting her in her crib, he sat down on the sofa and looked over to Sherlock. Once again, he was typing something on his computer, still in his pyjamas and dressing gown and therefore not likely to find an excuse to just leave the house. 

John took a deep breath. “Sherlock, we need to talk.”

“Not now John, I’m busy,” he replied without drawing his gaze away from the computer. 

“Yes, now. Because this is very important and can’t wait any longer.” John made sure to sound resolute but calm. “It’s about Katie.”

Finally, Sherlock turned to look at him, brow furrowed. “Why, is she sick?” he asked, and John wondered whether he was hearing a trace of concern. 

“No. She’s fine. Everything’s fine,” he replied. “But I’ve been thinking. About what to do in the future and what’s best for her.” 

The lines on Sherlock’s forehead became even deeper, his eyes narrowed, and his gaze instantly drifted to the crib at the other end of the sofa where the baby was sleeping peacefully. 

John found Sherlock’s apparent worry somewhat surprising. Nevertheless, he recalled the words he had partially prepared and continued: “She’s my number one priority, as you can guess. I have to do what’s best for her, but… I find it hard to-- I didn’t expect this. I thought I’d raise her with… with Mary, but that’s not going to happen now, so I have to consider--” John took another deep breath, just briefly looking up at Sherlock but finding himself unable to hold his gaze for too long. “Just hear me out, okay? This isn’t easy. But like I said, I need to do what’s best for her. I owe her that, and this here - the whole thing with. With us, what we do. I can’t help thinking it’s not the best environment to raise a child.” He let out a bitter huff. “I was even thinking whether it wouldn’t be best to give her up.” 

“No,” Sherlock said immediately, and it seemed like his voice was cracking. “Please, John. You can’t mean that. You…” He stood up from his chair and walked a few steps towards Katie’s crib, his whole face full of an agitation John had not expected. “Don’t take her away from me, please! I’ll do better. I promise.”

John stared at Sherlock for a moment, utterly bewildered at the panicked reaction and the words that contradicted everything he had observed so far. “I’m not saying I’m really doing it. Just that the thought came up,” he explained. 

Sherlock’s posture relaxed in relief, though his facial expression was still distressed as he stared at the baby without coming another step closer. “You want to move out.”

“I… I don’t know. I don’t want to, but maybe it would be for the best.” Or so John had thought up until now. When Sherlock let out a shaky sigh and knelt down next to the crib to look at Katie with such longing and despair, John had no idea what to think anymore. “Sherlock? I… I thought you-- I heard you say she’s ‘utterly useless’, and you never even want to--”

“That’s because she is!” Sherlock talked over him but his gaze softened as he let out another faint sigh and looked at John. “She can’t tell me what she wants. When she’s crying I can’t figure her out. I’ve tried to soothe her but she only started crying more, and another time she vomited on me. I must have done it wrong, or she doesn’t like me. And I can’t figure out why and what to do. I’ve been monitoring everything about her, the intervals between feeding and her nappies needing changing, her sleep pattern, the volume and sound pattern of her crying, but I never really know what she needs. Whenever I think I got it right this time it’s something else altogether. And--”

“Stop.” John was completely and utterly overwhelmed with what he had been hearing, caught by a pleasant surprise that, despite Sherlock’s perturbation, brought a smile to his lips. “You’re a complete idiot, you know that?” 

Sherlock looked at him not so much affronted at the mostly affectionate insult but confused, and he swallowed briefly. “I thought I’d figure it out,” he said with obvious embarrassment. 

John couldn’t help himself any longer. He got up from the sofa and reached down to pull Sherlock up to his feet gently. And, just after the briefest moments of hesitation, he brought his lips to Sherlock’s for a tender kiss. Eyes closed, savouring the contact of the warm mouth against his, he wrapped his arms around Sherlock and hugged him tight, letting his hands draw soothing circles over his upper back. And, unwilling to break the affectionate contact between them entirely, John let one hand rest on his cheek as he withdrew from the kiss, slowly. 

Sherlock’s eyes remained closed for a moment longer, lips slightly parted before his eyes blinked open and his slightly stunned expression turned into one of utter surprise. “You… kissed me.” 

“It seems I did,” John replied, amused and touched all the same. “Been wanting to for a while… Wasn’t sure it was such a good idea,” he explained, practically seeing the thoughts chase each other behind Sherlock’s furrowing brow. “Not while I thought you didn’t even want to put up with my daughter.” 

Sherlock’s lips twitched into a tiny smile for a short moment, but his gaze remained somewhat troubled. “What if she really doesn’t like me, though?” 

John let out a faint chuckle. “That’s nonsense.”

“Is it? People tend not to like me,” Sherlock replied with a disillusionment in his tone that tugged at John’s heart unpleasantly. 

“That’s not true. Babies don’t think like that anyway. As long as you treat them with affection they can’t but like you,” he said. One hand was still resting against Sherlock’s neck, thumb brushing over the soft skin below his jaw gently. Though despite his sympathy he was somewhat amused that he even had to explain such a basic fact to Sherlock. “And I could list at least ten people that do like you. I like you.” 

Sherlock’s eyebrow quirked up.

“I more than like you,” John added, leaning in once more to bring their lips together. 

And that was that. Everything he had doubted, every bit of guilt and uncertainty just dropped like a heavy weight from his shoulders, crumbled to dust and evaporated. He no longer wondered what he should do and feel; his decency and everyone who would disapprove could go fuck themselves. In that moment as their lips connected for a gentle, affectionate kiss John knew with adamant conviction that he loved Sherlock, that this was right. And he would not let a guilty conscience change his mind again, this time. 

Behind them, Katie let out a few soft sounds, not quite yet cries, but John knew they would follow soon. He let his thumb brush over Sherlock’s cheek as he slowly broke the kiss, looking up into a face that still expressed a residual insecurity. 

“Why don’t you pick her up?”

“What if I drop her?” 

“Well, that would be a bit not good, yes,” John replied, a small smirk on his lips. What was it with otherwise really capable people suddenly wondering they’d turn into the biggest dolt in the presence of a baby? “Though I doubt you will.” 

Still reluctant, Sherlock looked from the baby back to John, who nodded encouragingly. And finally, Sherlock leaned down and brought his hands underneath Katie’s back and head to lift her up. 

“Just hold her head steady and you’re good,” John instructed, watching as Sherlock put the baby against his chest, fingers maybe a tiny bit shaky but everything perfectly fine. 

Katie was letting out a few soft cries now, but she seemed to relax somewhat as Sherlock held her. And when he pressed a soft kiss to the side of the baby’s head - rather automatically as it seemed - John felt his nose tingle and a warmth spread through him that made him release a breathy, happy and relieved laugh. “See? It’s not rocket science.”

Sherlock looked at him still somewhat unconvinced. “Rocket science is predictable. Babies aren’t.” 

“And that’s the beauty of it,” John said as Sherlock finally started to become more secure and relaxed. 

“According to her recent schedule she shouldn’t need feeding for the next fifty minutes. So what does she need?” 

“I’m sure your method works on everything else. But babies aren’t scientific experiments, you know? You can’t predict their needs with a mathematical formula. So you just need to go with the flow. Trial and error, basically.”

She started wailing a little louder now, face contorted into a grimace and Sherlock looked quite desperate to figure out how to help her. “She’s hungry.”

“Really? Are you sure?” 

“Yes,” John replied. “That’s her hungry cry. Even if the clock says something else.” It would take a bit of time for Sherlock to unlearn his usual scientific approach and trust his instincts more, and John would start to help him with that right now. 

As they went into the kitchen for John to prepare the formula he did feel a bit stupid for not having realised what Sherlock’s problem had been, but he figured he had simply been too busy dealing with everything that had happened. 

Katie’s cries didn’t subside, if at all they got even louder and stronger, and Sherlock was already about to give her back to her father. “I’m doing it wrong again, aren’t I?”

“No you’re not. She’s just a little impatient now. It’s fine, Sherlock, really. Just keep doing what you’re doing,” he said, watching as Sherlock caressed the baby’s back and held her tightly to his shoulder while John went to prepare her bottle. 

Just about a minute later, they were back in the living room, Sherlock sitting down first and John handing him the bottle. Katie’s crying immediately stilled when Sherlock held the bottle to her tiny mouth. 

“Gently, so she doesn’t drink too much at once,” John said but very soon noticed that Sherlock did nothing wrong whatsoever. 

Katie’s eyes were open; she could not see and recognise everything just yet, but her eyes had become more focused day by day, and John watched now as her gaze fixed on Sherlock’s face. She was probably able to realise already that the dark, curly mop around a more angular face was not her father but she was perfectly relaxed and suckling contently. 

What was even more interesting was how Sherlock could not seem to draw his his eyes from her, either, and John was utterly fascinated by that sight. If somebody had told him a few years ago he would be sitting next to Sherlock Holmes, completely enchanted by a little baby - John’s - in his arms, he would have laughed. Now, it was one of the most beautiful things he could imagine, and John slid next to Sherlock a bit closer, putting his hand on the small of Sherlock’s back, just watching. 

It was about twenty minutes later, as Katie finished most of her bottle, when John heard steps on the hallway and a called-out ‘Yoo-hoo!’ announcing Mrs Hudson’s visit. For the tiniest moment, John considered drawing away from Sherlock - they had leant against the back of the sofa at some point, one of John’s arms around Sherlock’s shoulder and the other on his upper arm that held the baby bottle. But that thought was ridiculous, unnecessary, and John realised that he much more  _ wanted _ her to see, feeling so proud and happy right now that he did not want to keep it from anyone. 

When Mrs Hudson entered the living room she clapped her hands together and let out squeal in delight. “Look at you three!” 

John couldn’t help but beam up at her while Sherlock barely even raised his head to acknowledge her presence, still utterly enthralled by the baby that had been proving his insecurities wrong for the past half hour. 

“Sherlock. Finally,” she added and shook her head softly. 

“Yes, about bloody time,” John agreed. The gentle caress at the back of Sherlock’s neck was meant to express he didn’t just mean Sherlock taking care of the baby but - maybe much more so, as he realised then - John finally acting on what he felt. 

“How adorable you look. A proper little family.” She was still smiling, her eyes seeming almost a bit moist now and John had to giggle softly as he remembered all the times she had been convinced he and Sherlock were more than just flatmates and friends. At long last, she was right. 

Katie coughed ever so softly and let the nipple of the bottle slip from her lips, making a few smacking noises and turning her head away as Sherlock tried to resume feeding her. 

“I think she’s done, dear,” Mrs Hudson said. 

“But… there’s still a fifth of the formula left,” Sherlock said, brow furrowed in mild confusion. 

“Yeah. I’ll remind you of that next time you don’t finish your plate,” John said with a smile and finally drew back from Sherlock to reach for a cloth and gently wipe Katie’s mouth. 

“Mrs Hudson. Um…” he cleared his throat. “Would you mind watching Katie for a bit this evening? I think Sherlock and I have something to discuss.” 

Sherlock’s gaze was both surprised and ever so slightly alarmed as he immediately looked over at John, but Mrs Hudson seemed to understand him much better. 

“Of course I’ll watch the little angel!” she said, beaming down at them. “Leave you two lovebirds to yourselves,” she added in a whisper as if it was a secret anybody could have overheard. 

“Right,” John said, clearing his throat in mild embarrassment. Then he had to laugh again. 

Sherlock, however, seemed to be torn between hope in his eyes as he looked at John and reluctance as he looked back at Katie, still in his arms, very much unwilling to let her go. 

“Come on. Let her get some sleep,” John said softly as he reached over to take Katie from Sherlock’s arms. “You can hold her again later. I’ll show you how to change her nappies, too,” John added somewhat teasingly, seeing a combination of curiosity and apprehension on Sherlock’s features. 

He stood up and held Katie against his chest, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead as she nuzzled against him. “She won’t need feeding for the next four or six hours,” John said to Mrs Hudson. “You may need to change her in a bit, but I guess she’ll sleep for a while now. She always gets tired after her bottle.” 

“I’m sure we’ll manage just fine,” Mrs Hudson replied warmly. 

“I’ll fetch everything and bring her down in a minute, all right?” John asked and put Katie in her daybed. 

As Mrs Hudson left to go back downstairs Sherlock stood up and, a little awkwardly, waved one arm in direction of the back of the flat. “I should take a shower. If you… while you bring her downstairs. I…” 

John could only stare at Sherlock for a second but then had to let out a soft laugh. Instantly, he went over to Sherlock and laid one hand on his cheek, his thumb brushing over his skin with remarkably little stubble. Sherlock had probably showered and shaved sometime in the middle of last night. “I actually meant talk. At first. Whatever else happens… We don’t have to.” 

Sherlock looked down into John’s eyes for a moment, and even though there was a hint of insecurity left in his gaze it had also become more intense. Almost lustful, John realised, and felt a pleasant shiver run down his spine. “But you want to?” 

“God yes,” he could only reply breathlessly before he leaned in and kissed Sherlock. As he felt their lips connect - Sherlock’s soft and warm, the tip of his tongue teasing John’s bottom lip ever so slightly - he had to force himself to keep it short. 

John cleared his throat. “Hold that thought,” he said, a chuckle bubbling from his chest, anticipation and excitement tingling in his belly and making his cheeks feel warm. “I’ll be right back, okay?” 

Sherlock nodded, and so John drew away and sprinted up the stairs to his bedroom before he forgot everything he had wanted to do in favor of tearing Sherlock’s clothes off. He actually  _ had _ wanted to talk, as there was so much that needed sorting out. Things he, although there was so little doubt left now, needed to be absolutely sure of. 

As he fetched a clean nappy, clothes and other utensils Mrs Hudson might need, John also rummaged through his toiletries bag, which he hadn’t unpacked yet. And he had to laugh as he almost tripped over a pair of shoes in front of his dresser, feeling as excited as a teenager at the prospect of what this night may - or very likely would - bring. 

Just a few minutes later, after he had given his daughter into the care of their landlady, he re-entered the living room, closing the door behind him. Sherlock was nowhere in sight, but John could hear faint noises coming from the bathroom: the rattling of the towel hook against the inner side of the door as something was either taken from or put on it. It almost felt like an eternity until the door was finally opened, and John quickly went back to the couch to sit down so that Sherlock wouldn’t notice he had been hovering around the kitchen entrance impatiently. 

When Sherlock came back John’s breath caught in his throat for a brief moment. He was wearing his dressing gown again but clearly nothing underneath, walking across the room slowly on bare feet. John had to swallow and remind himself of what he wanted to say. 

“Sit down,” he said softly and patted the seat next to him once. 

Sherlock gave him a small, somewhat shy smile and did as he had been told, his gaze drifting from John’s face to his own feet. And god, he smelled delicious. John couldn’t wait to take the last layer of fabric from his body, touch and smell and kiss him everywhere. 

“Right. So…” He cleared his throat. “I. We need to be absolutely sure of this”, he said, wanting to get this part over with as soon as possible. “I said that Katie always comes first now, so I need to know if you’re in this completely. For all of it. Because I can’t--” 

“Yes,” Sherlock interrupted him as he looked back into John’s eyes. 

“Good.” John felt relieved. “And you know what this means, right? It’s not going to just be you and me against the rest of the world now. I need you to understand that--”

“No more experiments in the kitchen and body parts in the fridge, I know,” Sherlock said, letting out a soft sigh before a smirk briefly appeared on his lips. 

“Yeah, that too,” John replied, amused. “But that’s not all. We can’t continue everything as we used to do. When we do this. When we do this together we can’t put ourselves in danger all the time.”

Sherlock’s expression was an unreadable something between realisation and surrender. “You want me to give up the cases.”

“What? No. No, that’s not what I’m saying,” John replied quickly, and he followed an impulse as he took one of Sherlock’s hands in his. “I’d never ask that of you. But we… We need to be a lot more careful. Not put our lives at risk, for one thing. Yes. But we also can’t run off in the middle of the night. We’ll need babysitters and regular sleep. And food in the fridge, and not forgetting to pick Katie up from kindergarten or bring her to school and dozens of things I’m not even thinking of now. If we do this… Well, our lives will become a lot more boring.”

“It could never be boring,” Sherlock replied more vehemently than John’s joking words should have required. “Not with you and her, John.” 

“All right. I’m glad you see it like that,” he said, moved by the sincerity of Sherlock’s words. “I need you to be absolutely sure, though. I need you to understand that raising a child means a lot of responsibility and… Our lives would change completely. So if you’re not a hundred percent sure now, if you need more time or even -- I’m giving you a way out, Sherlock. As much as I want this right now, we don’t have to decide anything tonight.” 

Sherlock was silent for a while and John had a sudden sinking feeling that all his pleasant anticipation had been in vain or at least in haste. That he had, once more, overlooked something important. 

Sherlock’s gaze was fixed on their entwined fingers, and finally he looked back up at John as he gave his hand a firm squeeze. 

“I’m not a man anyone would consider an ideal parent, and I’m not certain I can do so myself. But I didn’t consider myself to be capable of being anyone’s friend a few years ago, either. You have proven me wrong, again and again, John. And while I must admit that… it’s all a bit terrifying and I’m really not sure that I won’t make countless mistakes - in fact I am sure I will make them - there’s a part of me that thinks, knows, that with you I can do anything. So when you’re asking me if I am prepared to face everything that is necessary, the good and the… inconvenient, then yes, I am. Because the alternative is something I can’t even bear considering.”

John let out a breath he hadn’t even been aware of holding, and it came out as a half sigh, half laugh. Sherlock had always had a way with words, but until recently John had never witnessed this emotional, tender and sincere side of Sherlock’s eloquence. He felt a warmth spread through him, a deep affection and gratitude towards Sherlock, similar to what he had felt when Sherlock had delivered that utterly heart-warming best man speech - though John did not really want to think of the wedding now, of Mary. Just for a second, his guilty conscience overshadowed his joy, but he gently pushed it away, telling himself that he wasn’t going to let it get in the way of his happiness. Not anymore. 

“I’m sorry it took me so long,” John said then. “But the thing is, I just…” He made a waving movement with one hand, not quite sure how to explain everything - what had held him back and why it didn’t matter now. “And I didn’t even know if you really… I obviously misread everything. But there was just so much going through my head that I couldn’t figure this bit out, too.”

Sherlock nodded and then shrugged, looking mildly guilty. “Well, I didn’t want to pressure you or anything. I didn’t… I had no right to.” 

Again, John felt that tiny, tearing sensation around his heart and he couldn’t prevent a soft sigh from leaving him. “Oh Sherlock.” In lieu of an explanation, another apology, John squeezed Sherlock’s hand and brought his other up to the back of Sherlock’s neck. 

Slowly, as to savour every bit of it, he brought their lips together again. There was a minuscule sigh from Sherlock just before they kissed, and John tried to reassure him with every gentle caress of his lips, soft kisses to the corner of Sherlock’s mouth, his cheek, and lips again before they parted and the tips of their tongues connected. It took but a few moments until gentle and reassuring turned into passionate and longing; Sherlock shifted closer, brought one hand up to John’s shoulder, fingers grasping tightly, and John felt a tingle of arousal in his lower body. 

Reluctant to do so, he broke the kiss nevertheless, leaning his forehead against Sherlock’s for a moment. “Bedroom?” he asked as gently as he could muster in his impatience. 

“Yes,” Sherlock said breathily, and John took his hand again, unable to resist the urge to kiss him as he pulled Sherlock to his feet. It took him quite some strength to draw away and, not letting go of Sherlock’s hand, head for the bedroom. 

There, in front of the large bed, he let go of Sherlock and looked him up and down. He realised it would take just a gentle tug on the belt of the dressing gown to have Sherlock stand in front of him completely naked while John was still completely dressed. And again, he had to stop himself from just following that impulse and instead reach for the buttons of his cardigan, opening them swiftly. His shirt buttons followed next. Sherlock stood there, waiting, just watching, and John wondered whether he was enjoying the display or not quite daring to do anything himself. 

Despite the yearning glance in his eyes Sherlock seemed rather innocent, almost insecure, and it hit John it was very much possible Sherlock had no experience in this area at all. John crossed the distance between them, laying one hand on Sherlock’s upper arm and the other on his cheek. He leaned in, the ghost of a kiss between their lips, and God, did he want to just plunge in, snog Sherlock senseless and press him into the mattress. But this wasn’t just about what he wanted. 

“So, this… What do you want to do?” 

Sherlock seemed briefly confused, brow furrowed slightly as he looked down at John. 

“I mean--” John cleared his throat, a huff of breath coming over his lips, amused and feeling slightly awkward. “This. Have you done this before?” 

Eyes averted, Sherlock shook his head. John immediately had to kiss him, feeling something tug at his heart at how… almost ashamed Sherlock had seemed about that reply. If only he could express how happy, grateful,  _ honoured _ he felt that Sherlock wanted to do this with him when nobody else before had been worthy.

“So last time. That was the first, as far as it counts.” 

“It does count,” Sherlock insisted, almost seeming hurt that John didn’t consider it a proper first time. 

“Well, yes. Good. But… I messed it up. Something like that, it should be something special.” 

“John, please, I’m not a delicate flower or a… teenager,” Sherlock said, mild indignation mixing with a trace of humour sparkling up in his eyes, though it barely camouflaged the ever-present insecurity and vulnerability in him. It was almost as if - and that, too, only sunk in now - as if Sherlock was prepared and willing to take whatever he could get from John, making no demands, and John’s heart broke a little for what he had put Sherlock through all this time. 

“No you’re not,” he started, his fingertips gently caressing Sherlock’s cheek, his neck, thumb brushing over that full and soft and kissable lower lip. “But I’m sorry. It shouldn’t have been like that. I didn’t think about you, just myself.” 

“You were in a difficult situation,” Sherlock said sympathetically. 

“Yes, all right. I was. But still, I shouldn’t have… used you like that. Played with your feelings. It wasn’t fair, and I am really sorry about that.” 

A small smile appeared on Sherlock’s lips and he nodded, and John found himself again marvelling at the enigma that was Sherlock Holmes. Where he could appear so rude and egoistic on the outside he was the complete opposite on the inside, deep down probably a much better friend than John had ever been. 

“I’m going to make it up to you. So I want you to tell me what you want and what you don’t, okay?”  

The tiniest hint of a blush became visible on Sherlock’s cheeks despite the dim light of the room, and he swallowed softly. “I… Whatever  _ you _ want. Everything. Anything. I… want you.” 

A trembling breath came over John’s lips promptly, and he couldn’t help but press them against Sherlock’s once more, one hand in the back of his neck, just holding him close there and feeling the soft brush of lips against lips. 

“Gosh, why do you have to be so bloody tall?” John smirked as he broke the kiss, and Sherlock smiled as well. One of his hands was at the small of John’s back, holding him in place while John had to strain up, almost standing on tiptoes. 

“Right.” John cleared his throat and, albeit reluctantly, took a step back. He reached into the pocket of his trousers, and suddenly everything he had anticipated and hoped for became a lot more real. Excitement and a tiny bit of nervousness filled him, and he was amused at himself as he pulled out the small bottle of lube and three condoms - the last he had - looking up at Sherlock with a questioning glance. “All right?” 

Sherlock’s eyes widened for a miniscule moment, and it was difficult to tell precisely which was more prominent: surprise or excitement. The expression very quickly changed into one that, once again, seemed to take John’s breath away. Eyes darkened, lips ever so slightly parted, he looked from John’s face all the way down his front, so slowly that John almost could imagine an equally slow caress against his skin. 

“Yes,” Sherlock breathed. 

“And… do you want me--”

“Whichever way you want it,” Sherlock interrupted him. “It’s probably best if you… Since you’re… experienced.” 

John looked up into Sherlock’s eyes again, and he suddenly had to laugh, shaking his head softly. “Right.” He took a deep breath, but a bashful chuckle escaped him at the oddity of the topic. It almost felt surreal to be standing here, not far from being naked, in a bedroom. With Sherlock. 

About to make love. 

His heart started to beat faster in his chest, and all hilarity was forgotten again. John put the lube and condoms on the bedside table, and, after just a moment’s hesitation, shrugged out of his open shirt. Then, he reached out and, very slowly, pulled the belt of Sherlock’s dressing gown open, savouring every second of the fabric parting and revealing naked skin underneath. He had to resist the urge to lean in and kiss Sherlock again as the silky garment slid down, but his attention was instantly caught by the now completely naked body. And God, was he beautiful. Lean muscles and pale skin, perfect proportions that reminded him of a classic sculpture, John couldn’t help thinking. A powerful, electrifying sensation of arousal shot through his lower belly as his gaze was fixed on Sherlock’s cock, half erect already, almost as pale as the rest of his skin, contrasted by the tuft of dark, curly hair. 

He wanted to touch it, feel it harden more in his hand, and it took him all his strength to wait a little longer. He wanted to make this last, make up for the hasty urgency of the last time. To cover every inch of Sherlock’s body in caresses and kisses until neither of them could wait just one more second. 

John brought his hand up and let it repeat the path of his earlier gaze. His fingertips gently wandered over Sherlock’s collarbone, his chest, index finger of one hand playing with the few hairs there as his eyes drifted back towards Sherlock’s which were glazed over now with desire. This was something John had always been good at, had always loved doing: taking his sweet time to please his partner, make them ache with need. That his partner was a man this time did not make any difference, and John was just briefly surprised at how naturally it all came to him. 

He leaned in and started nibbling at a spot just below Sherlock’s jaw, hearing a throaty sigh as response and smiling against the soft skin he was teasing. One hand roamed across his chest, thumb running around one nipple in closing circles until he felt it harden underneath his fingertip. His lips traveled lower, and so did his hand. While he kissed his way slowly down, John’s fingers danced over Sherlock’s belly, and he heard a faint sigh, felt it trembling in Sherlock’s chest and turn into a hiss as he closed his mouth around the hardened nipple. 

“John.” It was barely more than a hoarse, scratchy whisper, and the sound sent another shiver of arousal straight to John’s groin. 

Determinedly, his hand wandered lower, feeling the first coarse hair but letting his fingers drift along Sherlock’s hip and to his inner thigh. Sherlock’s knees seemed to go weak and he nearly stumbled backwards, sitting on the bed and looking up at John with a shyness that made him smile. 

It lasted but a few seconds, though. Sherlock’s gaze wandered from John’s face down his chest, slowly, as if he was cataloguing every detail. Then, with a swiftness that surprised John, he reached for his belt and opened it, tearing and pulling at button and zipper, eyes half-lidded and focusing on the hardening bulge in his pants, lips parted… When John realised what Sherlock most likely was about to do, his entire body was humming with shivers of arousal; a throaty moan escaped him and he bit his lower lip, wondering what those gorgeous lips would feel like on him, around him. Wanting to bury his fingers in Sherlock’s curls, thrusting into his mouth… 

He grasped Sherlock’s hands and held them in his to stop him in his movements. “Another time?” 

Sherlock looked up at him, confused, head crooked to one side. “Why?” 

John breathed out in amusement. “Well. If you start that now it’s all going to be over in a few minutes. And we…” He leaned down, one hand on the mattress to support himself, the other on Sherlock’s shoulder as he placed an open-mouthed kiss to the side of his neck, another onto his jawline. “I. Want to fuck you,” he whispered into Sherlock’s ear. “If that’s what you still want, too?”

The trembling moan Sherlock let out as his arms wrapped around John’s shoulders was answer enough. Pulling him closer, Sherlock sank backwards onto the mattress, and John managed to push down his trousers and kick out of them as he followed onto the bed, their lips again united in heated kisses. Tongues touching, teeth nibbling gently, they kissed for a long time, and John couldn’t help but marvel at how amazing Sherlock felt, despite the lack of experience. 

He had slid fully on top of Sherlock now, between slightly parted legs, and although he was still in his pants, the friction as he rubbed his erection against Sherlock’s - now fully hard - felt so utterly fantastic that John soon had to draw back again. Pushing himself up on one arm, he let his fingers caress Sherlock’s face and wander through his hair. “I want to take care of you,” he said, drinking in the expression of lustful anticipation on Sherlock’s features before he placed a soft kiss onto his lips. 

He let hands and lips repeat their earlier path, taking his time to explore nearly every inch of Sherlock’s torso, drifting down to his thighs, teasing with feather-light caresses and tender kisses. He wanted to give as much pleasure to Sherlock as possible, make him yearn for more, but the further down his lips travelled he found that a small part of him was also stalling. He wanted this, wanted to do this for Sherlock and to experience it himself. But he had only ever been on the receiving end of a blowjob so far, and John was filled with a tiny but undeniable bit of nervousness about it that he could only conceal with purposeful delay. 

When Sherlock was writhing underneath his caresses, moaning, sighing, pushing his hips up, begging to be touched, John neither wanted nor needed to wait any longer. He moved his hand from where it had drawn gentle circles on Sherlock’s hipbone to the base of his cock, and he looked up at Sherlock biting his lower lip as John licked his own. Finally, he let his tongue wander up Sherlock’s length in one long stroke. 

Sherlock nearly jerked up underneath him, upper body lifted up for a second, eyes wide, before his head sank back onto the pillow. John let his tongue encircle the head before he took him in, as completely as he could. It was the most amazing, exhilarating feeling, tasting him, feeling the tremors in Sherlock’s belly under his fingertips, hearing the sounds that went from hoarse breaths to trembling moans much more quickly than he would have thought. And… to have Sherlock in his mouth, his hard flesh wrapped firmly within his lips. To be doing this and - despite the fact that it took him a bit to accommodate to it all, and he was sure he would need a few more attempts to perfect the technique - to feel like this was the most natural, most wonderful thing to do… that aroused him more and more with every passing second and every lustful sound that came over Sherlock’s parted lips. 

“John,” Sherlock sighed as John sucked his cock back in as far as he could. “John. I… stop.” 

John had to chuckle, letting the sound vibrate around Sherlock’s erection on purpose and dragging it out for a moment longer before he finally let go of him and looked back up into Sherlock’s face. And, Christ, it was the most amazing expression he had ever seen on Sherlock’s features: cheeks flushed pink, eyes glazed, lips parted, completely helpless and overwhelmed with need. 

He crawled back up, leaning over Sherlock’s body to kiss him again, gently and slowly this time.

“I think that-- that was quite enough,” Sherlock stuttered bashfully. “Or I’d--” 

“You’d have come in my mouth?” John asked, half surprised at his own words, but also feeling them heighten his arousal. “I wouldn’t mind, you know,” he added softly, kissing his way down Sherlock’s throat and back up his chin and cheek. All Sherlock could respond with was another trembling sigh, and it made John grin. 

“Something else to keep for another time, then.” 

The lustful gaze in Sherlock’s eyes shifted, and John was not quite able to read it completely. But he thought that what he saw was almost as if it only hit Sherlock, then, that this was not just a one-time experience. That John was in for much more, possibly forever - as much as you could never say these things for certain, John liked to believe it would be. 

Sherlock’s gratitude and joy was expressed in the gentle kiss they shared, but the tenderness of the moment was soon replaced by more urgent touches again. Sherlock had one hand underneath John’s shoulder blade, fingers digging into his skin, hips circling, pushing up against him as John let one hand wander lower once more. But instead of touching Sherlock’s erection, he reached between his thighs, exploring more skin, and, bit by bit teasing his way back up, lightly touched the puckered muscle. 

They still kissed, again and again, while John reached over to the bedside table and put some lube on one finger, feeling little resistance as he carefully slid it inside Sherlock’s arse a moment later. This part was nothing new to him; aside from his medical knowledge, he had done it with the one or other female partner before and knew how to best prepare them, how long to wait, which way to circle, thrust slowly to work them open. A second finger followed, sliding in easily, before John crooked them both and rubbed them against Sherlock’s prostate. At least that part, in this context, was a first, and he smirked in amusement and delight as he saw Sherlock’s eyes shoot wide open and his mouth form a soundless ‘O’. 

“All right?” he asked, as a third finger gently pushed against the tight ring of muscle. 

“Yes, John!” Sherlock retorted with an impatient, almost annoyed hiss, wriggling against John’s hand.

“Good,” he said, still waiting a moment just to see that needy expression on Sherlock’s face for a bit longer before he finally let the third digit enter him. It didn’t take much until he was sure Sherlock was quite ready, and the more moans and sighs he let out, pushing himself against John’s hand, reaching for him, the less John felt he really wanted to drag this out any longer. 

He removed his pants, put the condom on swiftly and coated his erection with some more lube for good measure. Then, weight propped up on one hand as Sherlock had pulled his knees up high, legs wrapped around John’s torso, he held himself in place and, slowly and carefully - finally - pushed in. 

He felt the strong muscles tighten around him just briefly, heard Sherlock suck in a breath ever so slightly and saw his brow furrow, but that only lasted for a second or two. John soothingly caressed Sherlock’s upper arm with one hand, and he felt him relax , the yearning and arousal back in his eyes as he looked at John. And so, with the same gentleness as before, he pushed in completely, his entire length deep inside Sherlock’s arse. And fuck, it felt utterly amazing. Better than he had remembered, so tight and warm and simply fantastic because this was  _ Sherlock _ ,  the man who had been married to his work, claimed to be disinterested in emotions and affection and who now lay beneath him, open and wanting and the expression on his face so sensual and just _ overwhelmingly fucking beautiful _ . 

The slow rhythm John had taken up as he felt Sherlock relax around him soon became more intense. Sherlock crossed his ankles behind John’s back and dug his fingers into John’s shoulder more forcefully, moving up against him, urging him to go faster and deeper. 

“John,” he moaned, half-lidded eyes barely focussing on him as John thrust into him, and the sound of his name alone finally robbed John of all the long maintained control. He couldn’t draw this out as much as he would have liked, feeling overwhelmed by the sensations of being with Sherlock like this, being wanted like this. Nails dug into his skin so hard that it almost hurt, and John felt his breath speed up, tingles of tension building in his centre that would not take long to find their peak. 

Sherlock sighed, moaned, at one point almost growled out his name. John reached between them, wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s straining erection and pumped his fist up and down in rhythm with his thrusts. And soon, very soon… he had to bite his lower lip, hard, to keep himself from coming before Sherlock would. Waited until he felt the tight muscles around him twitch, heard the trembling, drawn out, throaty cry as Sherlock’s release spurted onto his belly and chest, sticky between John’s fingers. 

There was no holding back now. John pushed himself up on both arms and thrust into tightness surrounding him harder and deeper and faster than before. A few more times, before the tension in his body shot straight to his balls, everything tightening for a seemingly endless moment until he finally came, hard, with a deep, hoarse groan. 

He all but collapsed on top of Sherlock, arms trembling from the effort as the waves of his orgasm shot through him with their last declining tremors. John took a few deep and heavy breaths, his whole body hot and his heart still beating fast, before he managed to lift his head and look up into Sherlock’s eyes. There was such tenderness in the expression that met him despite the sweat covering Sherlock’s skin, pleasant exhaustion written all over his features. John stretched himself forward to kiss Sherlock’s mouth, barely a brush of lips against lips, moist and warm. 

For a moment, he allowed himself to let his head rest against Sherlock’s shoulder, feeling gentle fingers caress his back. He fought against the temptation to just let his eyes fall shut and instead carefully slid out of Sherlock’s body. 

“I’ll… be right back.”

“Just toss it on the floor,” Sherlock said, reaching for John’s wrist to keep him on the bed before he could get up. 

“And who’s going to clean that up?” John said, though he managed to tie a knot into the end of the condom and put it on the hardwood floor without much of a mess. 

Sherlock shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. Mrs Hudson? She thinks we’ve been shagging for the past five years anyway. She’ll finally have proof.” 

A soft chuckle turned into a fit of giggles as John let himself flop back down onto the bed, and he heard the same sounds coming from Sherlock. 

“She does, doesn’t she? I’ve told her so many times,” John added, amused. Then he turned his head to look back at Sherlock, finding his gaze immediately, and he couldn’t help but reach for Sherlock’s hand, grasp it gently and let their fingers entwine before he brought it up to his lips and kissed it softly. 

“That was bloody amazing, you know that?” 

“Hm.” Sherlock smiled briefly, but the look in his eyes was completely sincere. “You’re always the one telling me I’m amazing - but this time I should be the one to say it. In fact, I am saying it. This was the single most… fantastic experience I’ve ever had, John.” 

John had expected a little joke, maybe even a mockery of his own words of praise for Sherlock’s brilliance, similar to those many years ago when they had first met. There had been not a trace of teasing humour in Sherlock’s tone, however, and John felt almost embarrassed at the earnest compliment. 

In lieu of a reply, John leaned over and kissed Sherlock, his free hand running gently through the sweat-moist curls before he rested his forehead against Sherlock’s. “There’ll be plenty more. At least if it’s up to me.”

“I should hope so,” Sherlock replied. 

“Hm, even when you’re on a case?” John asked teasingly and Sherlock pursed his lips, shrugging. 

“ Well. Not precisely  _ on _ a case, maybe.”

John let out a soft giggle. 

“Imagine Lestrade’s face, though,” Sherlock added in mock-seriousness. 

“Oh God. No.” 

And they both laughed, kissing again after a few moments because neither of them seemed to get enough of those pleasant, blissful after-sex touches. They allowed themselves a few more minutes before they had to clean up and go downstairs to relieve Mrs Hudson from her babysitting duties.

It was quite fortunate that, when John finally knocked at Mrs Hudson’s door, she did not seem to mind at all that those minutes had turned into over an hour, in the end. 

  
  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that was kinda a short chapter wasn't it? ;) 8,5 k words, ehem. Also took me about three weeks to write because I only had enough time on the weekends. But I suppose I've finally, properly, earned that Explicit rating (though I could have gone for M). 
> 
> I do hope you liked this chapter. Things are finally good now for John and Sherlock and the baby, but there's still a criminal to catch before our 'little lovebirds' can fully enjoy it. 
> 
> I have one more chapter finished, need to have it beta-read and will post it next weekend. After that... it's possible you'll have to wait a little bit longer after all. A friend is coming over to visit me next weekend, so I won't have much time to write the two showdown chapters. And I wouldn't want to post just one and then have you wait two or three weeks on a giant cliffhanger. So we'll see how it goes. 
> 
> Lastly, big thanks again to my beta-reader Erin who does a wonderful job, points out all the details I didn't think through properly and suggests some really great additions/alterations when needed. I couldn't have found a better one :)


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, so sorry for the late update. I have been busier than I would have thought, firstly with cleaning my flat and taking care of a few things (also work) and then having my friend and muse Amanda coming over for the extended weekend.   
> Unfortunately, this also means I haven't had the time yet to start writing the next chapter. But Amanda and I brainstormed all the details of the showdown yesterday, so don't worry that I won't finish it. It might just take a bit longer than anticipated. I'd like to finish both parts before I post the first so that you won't have to wait too long between chapters 15 and 16. After that, it's only an epilogue and we're done. Woah. ^^ Thank you all for reading so far, and I hope you'll stick with me until the end.   
> And now, on to the next chapter. In which there's some sibling bonding (and Mycroft is being even somewhat sweet... albeit still a pretentious prick ^^).

It was his third time playing Franz Schubert’s  _ Wiegenlied _ ,  a song much less common than the well-known lullaby by Brahms, but Sherlock found that he enjoyed playing it much more. Its composition was more complex, the melody filled with more variation and just the right amount of melancholy undertones that created a beauty which transcended the original, rather sad, topic of the song’s lyrics and turned it into something universally soothing and pleasing to the ear. At least Katie seemed to agree with that.

The little baby had been listening to his playing intently - it was easy to tell from the way her head was turned in his direction, eyes open despite the inability to clearly make out shapes and forms over a distance larger than half a metre. (Though Sherlock was pleased to notice that she already showed first signs of being able to track minimal movement, if only for a brief moment). 

She was supposed to sleep, at least according to her usual nap pattern, but unlike other times when she was tired and cranky but unable to fall asleep she did not seem to want to, at present, obviously preferring to listen to the sounds of the violin. Sherlock couldn’t deny being somewhat flattered. 

He finally put the violin away and, smiling involuntarily, leaned over the crib to pick the baby up. Gently and safely he lifted her and let her rest against his chest, much more naturally now that he had finally got over his inhibitions and worries. It almost seemed ridiculous to him now that he had been so anxious about it all in the first place. 

The baby relaxed in his arms, but she pushed her head against his hand, trying to look up into his face with large, deep blue eyes, and Sherlock just melted under her trusting gaze with an intensity he would have never thought possible. That tiny, little helpless creature did something to him that was beyond his comprehension. It was as if his chest widened with a pressure almost akin to pain, but oddly it was the most pleasant of feelings, spreading through his entire consciousness and making him know,  _ feel _ that he would do anything for her, would rip the head off of anyone who dared harm her, and that it would take but one glance like the one she was giving him now for him to drop everything and do whatever she required. So long as she was happy, safe and sound. 

To simply explain that feeling with the common four-letter word seemed awfully simplistic and trite. Explaining _ why _ he, of all people, felt that way was a whole different matter and probably the greatest puzzle he had ever been faced with. If he wanted to list the reasons why he loved John he could probably write a ten-thousand word essay on it. It would reach from his virtues and qualities over his quirks and mannerisms to gestures of more and lesser grandeur with which John had proven his feelings of friendship and affection to Sherlock. But unlike her father, Katie had done not one thing to win Sherlock’s heart, and it was a complete mystery to him how quickly and effortlessly she had wormed her way into it, irrevocably. Maybe it was the same openness, a similar kind of trust they had both put in him for different reasons, from the very beginning, that had been the catalyst for a deep bond. Maybe he loved her because she was John’s (she already had his eyes and, as far as one could tell this young, her mother’s nose and the facial bone structure a mix of both). Maybe it was just some universal biochemical effect that proved paternal instincts he hadn’t been aware of before and he’d feel the same way about any baby. Though he dismissed the latter thought immediately as the mere consideration almost felt like a kind of betrayal. No, this little girl was special, to John and to Sherlock; she was his, if not biologically, and more so: he was hers, forever and until his last dying breath. 

“ Maybe another lullaby next,” Sherlock said softly. “You might like  _ la berceuse ‘petite reine’ _ .  That means ‘lullaby for a little queen’. It’s easy enough to be played pianissimo. So that we don’t wake up your father.” 

Even though the baby was far too young to have any comprehension of his words, Sherlock talked to her a lot, and as you would to an adult. There was no better method to train an infant’s linguistic abilities than exposing them to a great variety of words - even various languages - at an early age. And she seemed to like listening to his voice. 

“Your father really was very tired earlier. Unlike babies like yourself, adults in your father’s age averagely require six to seven hours of interrupted sleep, did you know that? I don’t obviously, but ordinary people do. And he didn’t even get his four hours last night. Which may have been my fault,” Sherlock said, leaving it at that, although, of course, she wouldn’t have understood a thing even if he had told her which activities exactly had kept John up. 

It was really quite remarkable how, despite John’s lack of sleep recently, despite everything else to worry about (and having to put up with frequent calls from Mycroft for that reason), neither John nor Sherlock had seemed to be able to keep their hands off of each other. And it was even more remarkable how Sherlock, as someone who had lived in intended oblivion to sexual pleasures for thirty-seven years, had gone from nil to craving every little bit he could get in only three days. In fact, it had been that way ever since that first ‘proper’ time, as John had put it. 

His gaze drifted to the kitchen and he remembered yet another instance, more automatically than deliberately. John had stood there by the sink the previous morning, washing baby bottles and some dishes, and Sherlock had come up behind him, and despite never having thought it possible, quite naturally wrapped his arms around John, kissing his neck… And somewhere along the line he had ended up on his knees in front of John, who had bit his lower lip so hard that Sherlock could feel its soreness afterwards, while Katie had been sleeping in her cot just around the corner. 

Coming out of his reverie, Sherlock smiled down at the baby in his arms. “How about I put you back in your bed and play you one of those lullabies, and then you sleep a bit too?” he asked softly before bringing his lips to the baby’s forehead and pressing a gentle kiss against it. 

In the very next moment, however, he let out an involuntary groan as he heard the very particular sound of a car door fall shut in front of the house, and, just a few moments later the front door being opened and steps of unmistakable origin coming up the stairs. 

Just for a minuscule moment, he considered laying down on the sofa and pretending to be asleep, but then again Mycroft would instantly see through his charade. And there was also the possibility he had something useful to say, little as it was. 

A moment later, Mycroft entered the living room, umbrella in hand despite the sunshine outside. Sherlock had to roll his eyes at the pretentiousness of it.

“Ah,” Mycroft said, as if he was surprised to have found Sherlock here. “Taking over the role of the doting mother already?”

“Oh fuck off, Mycroft!” Sherlock retorted, softly rocking Katie against his shoulder when she had started to stir and whimper at the presence of a strange voice in the room. 

“Really? Swearing in front of a baby? I can see you’ll be a great influence on her.” A faint smirk lay on Mycroft’s lips, accompanying the mock-sweet tone in his typical annoying manner, and Sherlock couldn’t help roll his eyes. 

“It’s not like she can understand it yet. Though, ‘fuck off, Mycroft’ is a phrase I plan on teaching her right after she’s learned to say ‘daddy’.” Of course, Sherlock wasn’t serious. Especially since it required more complex phonemes than those first few a baby could learn. 

Mycroft came a step closer, eyes open and chin raised - a subconscious facial expression to emphasise his superiority. “I wonder, what will she call you?”

Sherlock felt something tingle up his scalp and his eyes narrow. “Really, Mycroft? After all that talk about what’s in my and John’s best interest, all your interfering as a megalomaniacally perverted kind of cupid, and you’re  _ still _ not satisfied?” 

Mycroft’s brows rose a bit higher and the smirk was gone from his features, and he blinked a couple of times - the only sure tell of something like insecurity, surprise or nervousness, if Mycroft even was capable of any such emotions. “I was merely interested.” 

“Oh.” Sherlock relaxed, and, noticing that Katie was yawning softly, finally put her back into the bed. 

“I don’t know. By my name, I suppose.” 

“Hm,” Mycroft hummed as he came yet a few steps closer, standing right next to the crib and peering inside from far above, and it occurred to Sherlock that the disdain on his brother’s features was merely for show. 

“I’d offer to let you pick her up, but John said if you ever touched her without his permission he’d kill you. Not that I’d mind, awfully.” 

Now it was Mycroft who rolled his eyes, before his smug and superior smile was back in place. He took a step back and leant against the desk. “You’re probably wondering about the reason for my visit.”

“I don’t need to wonder. You’re here to admit that you’re once again out of your depth regarding the Colonel,” Sherlock replied. “Oh, and to pry on the progress of my private life.” 

“Is there any progress to it?” Mycroft asked, and Sherlock was once more not completely sure whether his main intention behind the question was genuine interest or the wish to find another detail about which to be condescending. 

“None of your business,” Sherlock said, though he was quite sure Mycroft could read that as a ‘yes’. 

“Then the reason why you haven’t left the house in two days to consult with any of your footboys is that you have already figured out this puzzle?” Mycroft asked provocatively.

Sherlock felt caught. It had been much too easy to forget everything else these past few days, although he had texted with Billy and a few others, had monitored the relevant internet forums and had spared a few moments to think over the matter. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t already told Mycroft everything that might contribute to finding the Colonel’s hiding places and Mycroft hadn’t his own more or less capable men working on the issue. 

“Four days since our last conversation, Sherlock,” Mycroft reminded him, tone insistent, and Sherlock couldn’t prevent himself from getting somewhat angry. 

“Why do I need to figure it out? Don’t you always pride yourself in being the smarter one?” 

But Mycroft didn’t react to the provocation. “Sherlock, we need to find the Colonel before he can make his next move. Do I really need to remind you that you spent two years of your life trying to track these people? And now you decide to conveniently forget that fact just because you’re busy playing house with John?”

“ I’m not  _ playing _ house!” Sherlock retorted, unwilling to admit that he should, indeed, have spent more energy on solving the problem than blissfully ignoring it. Both he and John. 

Sherlock let out an involuntary sigh, feeling more resigned than annoyed when Mycroft remained silent, simply prompting him to continue with a stern stare.“And what do you think the Colonel might do?” Sherlock asked, more resigned than annoyed when Mycroft had remained silent, prompting him with a stern stare to continue. “You’ve already changed the location of your little tea party, the police forces are alerted and prepared for a possible terrorist attack, and your agents watch every step John and I are taking. So what is left, really?” He knew he was fishing for a glimmer of hope that made the situation look less grim than the fact that the man who murdered John’s wife - Katie’s mother - not four weeks earlier was still at large, dangerous as ever. 

“A million things, and that’s the problem,” Mycroft replied calmly. “It is possible that he is long gone and not planning to return in the near future. Janine confirmed that it had always seemed he was more in it for the money than to avenge his former employer. However, you know how these criminals and terrorists are, and for someone so high up in Moriarty’s ranks, and from what you told me of your encounter, he can’t be just a simple soldier. He didn’t fall for my trap, either.” 

“See, Mycroft? Not everybody is as stupid as you always presume. And now you’re facing the consequences of such miscalculations, so go and figure it out yourself!” 

“This is hardly the occasion to discuss my character, is it?” Mycroft asked calmly. “We need a solution. You need one, most of all. For Katherine’s sake, too.” 

Sherlock knew his brother was right. Sadly, he was as much out of his depth as Mycroft, not knowing where to look anymore and what to expect. To allow himself to be lulled into a false sense of security could be a dangerous error. 

His gaze drifted to the baby in her cot, who seemed to be quite unperturbed by the discussion going on around her. He couldn’t bear even thinking of the possibility that something might happen to her. But he had no clue how to prevent it. 

“I could guess his intentions if I knew anything about his identity,” Sherlock admitted, looking back at Mycroft with a questioning glance and the brief but vague hope his brother had at least made some progress in that direction. Unfortunately, Mycroft just shook his head. 

They would have to look harder. 

~*~

The weather was exceptionally pleasant for this time of year, sunshine and mild temperatures that made it the perfect conditions for a first proper walk with Katie. Though, a proper walk also included three of Mycroft’s men tailing John wherever he went - and though he was very grateful, it did lend a sense of sobriety to the whole affair. John had taken the path along the boating lake of Regent’s Park, staying relatively close to the Outer Circle road (where a suspicious black limousine was parked with even more surveillance) and sat down on a bench with perfect view onto the water. Katie, in her pram, was sleeping soundly. 

He checked his phone, rereading Harry’s last text and hoping she would find him here. Just when he thought he should call her with directions, he saw a figure in a navy blue quilted jacket approach him from the right. She lifted her arm to wave at him and sped up her steps until she reached his bench, seeming just slightly out of breath. 

“Ugh, it’s really warm,” she said, fanning her face with one hand and opening her jacket further before she spread her arms to hug John hello. They had never been awfully affectionate with each other, at least not during their adult lives, but the gesture seemed to come more naturally to both of them now. 

“Yeah, I could have told you,” he replied, smirking ever so slightly before he sat back down. He put one hand on the handle of the pram again immediately. He hadn’t expected to be an overly worried parent, and there really wasn’t much that could happen within this large, open area that he could oversee easily. However, there was an instinct in him - heightened by the overall more threatening situation - that made him not want to let go of his daughter or leave her out of his sight for longer than was necessary. 

“Anyway… hi,” Harry said and smiled, first at him then her little niece as she bent over the pram to take a closer look. And John was sure to see just the smallest hint of disappointment when she realised the baby was asleep. “So, how’s she doing?”

“Fine,” John said as his sister sat down next to him. “Really great, in fact. She had her first doctor’s visit last week, and everything’s developing perfectly. She also has started to sleep a bit more regularly now.”

“That’s good,” Harry smiled, and before John knew it, she started to ask him all sorts of questions on the development of babies in general, about her eyesight, feeding, even changing her nappies. John was quite touched and a little bit impressed that his sister apparently had spent a lot of time reading about babies and showing a genuine interest in Katie that wasn’t just purely for politeness. And he was proud to share every detail with her, proud about such tiny things as Katie having focussed both her eyes on his index finger the other day. It should feel odd but it didn’t. John guessed it was probably the way any new parent felt about their child.  

“I wanted to get you something else for her, but then I didn’t know what you could use, and you read all that stuff about what you shouldn’t give a baby and what could be a danger to them and so on,” she said, shrugging apologetically. 

John raised a hand and shook his head. “No, it’s fine really. We’ve got quite enough for her for now.” 

He saw Harry squinting at him for a tiny moment, and he had a faint guess what got her wondering. He hadn’t even realised until after that the word ‘we’ had come over his lips without conscious thought. 

“So, how are you then?” she asked. 

“Good. I’m good,” John replied. He hesitated for a moment, a sudden thought in mind that made him feel somewhat silly about his own desire to mention it. Brag about it, even. Then again, who else to tell if not his sister? “I… slept with Sherlock.” 

He had said it with a straight face, his gaze more focused on the water in front of them than his sister, though he could see her look of surprise from the corner of his eye anyway. She leaned forward and studied him closely before she leaned back again and let out a short laugh. “Jesus Christ. You’re not kidding.” 

“No,” he replied and now, too, could hardly keep the corners of his mouth down, excitement spreading through his midst. 

“Bloody hell!” She exclaimed again. John did look at her now, just briefly, and he could see her face lit up with a wide grin. “So, was that… Just a one-time thing or…?”

“No, not a one-time thing,” he replied, automatically thinking back at quite a few repeat occasions and forcing himself not to think of them too vividly, lest he want to blush in front of his sister. 

“Well, fuck me sideways,” she chuckled. “Though… I suppose you’ve already done that with him, eh?” 

And now John couldn’t stop himself from laughing out loud freely and feeling the amusement bubble from his chest. 

“Blimey, John. I didn’t even… I mean it was clear to me that Sherlock goes for blokes, but--”

“Oh was it?” John asked, being less surprised than he should have thought. “Guess the same goes for anyone except me.”

Harry leaned forward again and looked at him with raised eyebrows. “Don’t tell me you didn’t know, John.” 

“How could I?” He was mildly affronted, though it could hardly overshadow the good mood he was in, and she also sort of had a point. He shrugged. “I mean, he was abstinent. Married to his work, that’s what he said. So I had no idea what he’d go for if he went for anyone. I mean, I thought if at all he’d show interest in some devious genius. Like that Irene woman.” 

“Oh, Johnny, please!” 

“No, seriously. It’s not like all gay men are awfully flamboyant,” John retorted, rolling his eyes. “Or all--”

“Flamboyant men are gay?” Harry concluded. “Well, yeah. Point.” Then she shook her head again in contemplation and let out a soft giggle. “You, however. I can’t say I’m not surprised. Though the whole thing, with the blog and all, it was a bit suspicious sometimes.”

“Really?” 

Harry pursed her lips and looked up in the air before she replied. “Well, I thought it was more of a heterosexual man-crush. But a man-crush nonetheless. You’ve never… or have you?” 

John shook his head. Even though he had spent a lot of contemplation on that question recently, he always came to the conclusion that there hadn’t been anything in his youth or adult life that he had chosen to repress. “No. I mean. Maybe just a theoretical thought of sorts. If I had to do it with a guy it would be him. That sort of thing. But I’ve never… wanted to. It’s just Sherlock.” 

“So, this is serious then?”

It was remarkably easy to answer her question with a heartfelt ‘yes’, and John had smiled, reminiscent and happy and very, very sure. Nevertheless, he couldn’t quite avoid the small feeling of guilt that was ever-present in him. “Does that make me a bad person?” 

Harry looked at him for a long moment then, her expression soft and caring as he couldn’t quite ever remember seeing before. And to emphasise the gentleness in her gaze, she laid a hand on his lower arm and squeezed it slightly. “Of course not.”

“Yeah, but…” He would have liked to believe it was as simple as that, but he couldn't really shake off that feeling that everybody else would be judging him - for good reason. "Why not? I mean," he let out a sarcastic laugh. “A three-week grieving period before you get together with a new partner isn't really... right." 

"Well, it usually isn't," she agreed. "But I think normal doesn't really apply when you've found out that your wife was a psychopath." 

John gave her a stern look, though her words didn’t make him nearly as angry and defensive as he would have expected. “I’m not quite sure you’re the right person to ask, anyway,” he said, free of reproach. “I mean you’re my sister, of course you’re on my side.” 

Harry shrugged and leaned back against the bench a bit more comfortably. Her hand remained on his lower arm, and even though John had to get used to this renewed physical closeness he really didn’t mind. They had been close like that as kids, at least, when things had been easy and their lives mostly untroubled by anything else they went through later on. 

“Look. Yes, you’re right. Everybody who doesn’t know all of the circumstances would expect you to mourn your wife properly, stay single for a good while. Be lonely and suppress your true feelings while they can stay in their comfort zone and pity the poor widower with his little child. Honestly, John. Since when do you give a rat’s arse about what other people think of you?” 

“Well, you’re right. I don’t, actually.” A faint chuckle escaped him quite easily. “Although you were always more of a rebel than I.”

The short, breathy laugh that came over her lips then was one of pure disbelief. “Yeah, John. I rebelled. But unlike you I did care about what everyone was saying and thinking about me. Or expecting of me. What do you think why I started all that rubbish back then? You however… I always looked up to you. Actually, I always wished I could be a bit more like you. As strong-willed and with that ‘fuck-’em-all’ attitude.”

“Okay, stop,” John said, feeling abashed and touched and a little bit sad for all the thing he never fully understood until recently. “Or I might blush after all.” 

Harry smiled and bumped his shoulder with hers. They both remained quiet for a while, and John was already wondering whether he shouldn’t get back soon; Katie would need feeding in a while, and it was a ten-minute walk back to their flat. Then Harry spoke up once more. “There was one instance when you did care what others thought and said, and that’s when it wasn’t about yourself but people you care about. So… as for you being a good person I think that speaks for itself. Sorry, stopping now,” she ended with a grin when she caught the expression on his face.

John contemplated her words for a short moment. He knew he had many flaws of character, had made many unfortunate decisions - especially lately - but it did feel good to hear these words from his sister, so see himself through her eyes for once, knowing she never hated him despite all their difficulties. 

And this, having her in his life again, along with Katie and Sherlock, was much more important than anything. John just hated the irony of it - that it had been his wife’s death that was the catalyst for him finding what he truly needed. That it had all happened without any deliberate contribution on his part, without a choice he had needed to make. However, no matter how it had happened, John knew that, right now, he was where he wanted to be, and he would not feel guilty about that anymore.  

 

 


End file.
